The Assistant to the First Officer
by FordTruckGirl4TA
Summary: When Ellen Wallace is commissioned as a junior officer, the other officers eventually accept her. The last to put aside his working woman prejudice is Murdoch, but only because he's hiding from himself and the others that he's falling fast for her...
1. Prologue: Wallace

Here I am. . . with my next serial. No guarantees as to how quick I can punch the chapters out; I'm working on about fifty million other things now, too, not including school work. However, I watched Titanic again this afternoon and fastforwarded to all the parts with Mr. Murdoch. And let me say that you probably won't understand everything in the prologue. That's cool—you're not really supposed to until you get to the rest. :-) This story is dedicated to my loyal readers, who have kept me breathing here with their reviews. Thanks, y'all.

–Katherine

DISCLAIMER: I do not own these characters; they belong to the ages. The Murdoch and other characters here I am picturing as the ones that starred in the 1997 film directed by James Cameron. I am well aware that the real William McMaster Murdoch was married in 1912, but once again, that's why this stuff is fan _fiction_. Nuff ranting. On with the story.

THE ASSISTANT TO THE FIRST OFFICER

A fan fictional account of the tragedy of the R.M.S. _Titanic_

Written by FordTruckGirl4TA

PROLOGUE: WALLACE

April 15, 1912

02:13

            I struggled to hold myself up, tried to breathe deeply, but it was as though my lungs just wouldn't keep the air in. The listing deck was cold and hard under my hands, damp with the freezing sea spray. My entire left side was burning with pain, but it all narrowed down to one white-hot point in my waist. I could practically taste the gunpowder from the bullet, sour and metallic, and my nose still stung with the gun smoke. 

            Someone's arm slid around my shoulders, with another arm under my knees, and I was vaguely aware of being moved away from the pressing, shouting crowds. I didn't care or see who held me; I leaned my head against his chest, feeling as though each of my limbs were made of lead. I recognized the clean scent of soap and aftershave, and relaxed a little, knowing that I was in good hands. I don't know how far I was taken, but suddenly I was down again. Another set of arms supported my shoulders, and I tried to see clearly while someone else unbuttoned my heavy coat to find the wound. 

            I'd known it was bad, but my stomach rolled at the sight of my shirt, which was already saturated with blood, bright red against the crisp white. Shaking fingers pulled out the bottom three buttons, and suddenly the wound was exposed to the frigid air. I closed my eyes at the sight of the black and purple tear in my skin that dribbled blood, and set my teeth against the pain. I was vaguely aware of voices around me, but I could barely focus on the speakers, much less the words. The arms around my shoulders shifted to another man's, trying to hold me up. I screwed up my concentration and met the eyes of the man now above me.

            My heart leaped in my chest, its beats numbered now, as I recognized the face. But it was changed. . . it was so changed. Of course, it had been all night, ever since the collision-- but this was different. The pain in his features was breathtaking, and he wasn't even the one with the bullet in his side. 

            I gathered my strength and lifted my hand, resting it on the back of his neck, my fingers twining in the soft hair that poked out from under his cap. I managed hoarsely, "Murdoch." 

            I watched tears gather slowly in his eyes. "Don't speak," he croaked, using his free hand to gently smooth sweaty hair off my face. It shook as it did so. "It'll make the pain worse."

            A slight smile spread on my face. "You think I can be in pain when I'm with you?"

            He struggled to smile as well, and failed miserably. "I should have made you go," he whispered. "Good _God_, I should have forced you to go!"

            I swallowed, remembering. "Something would have happened to me anyway. . . you can't beat fate." I took in a deep breath, trying to ignore the throbbing in my side. "Luckily it led me back to you."

            Tears traced down his cheeks. "Oh, love," he whispered, shoulders shaking. "I'm so sorry."

The noise in the background was fading, slowly. The shouting, the roaring water. . . all fading. I curled my fingers farther around the back of his neck, pulled him closer to me. "I know, Will." My eyes watered; God, I loved him. "It's okay."

            "No," he whispered back; I could feel his tears catching in the hollow of my throat. He brushed them away with his thumb. "It's not. . . we. . ."

            I couldn't stop a sniffle, and cried out from the pain as my side jerked. I clung to him more tightly, shaking even worse, if possible. I forced myself to open my eyes, and meet his. My voice was breaking from the pain in my side, and my heart. "S'_okay_, Will."

            To prove it, I pulled his lips down to mine, and he returned the kiss. Somewhere in the back of my mind I was aware of the other officers watching, but at the moment, I could have cared less. "I'm sorry," he choked, his tears falling cold onto my cheeks. "My God. . . I'm so. . . _sorry_. . ."

            They say your life flashes before your eyes when you're dying. Maybe that's what happened to me, but it was only the events of the last couple of days. . . and what brought me here. In the midst of my final _bisés français _with the First Officer William McMaster Murdoch, and moments away from my last breath, I watched the best days of my life unfold all over again.


	2. One: Lightoller

Author's Note: Here we go. . . chapter two. A quick note about the chapters: the chapter title corresponds with whose third-person point of view the chapter will focus on. However, I'm thinking about doing Ellen's chapters in first person. lol I dunno. . . we'll see. Oh yeah, and thank you to all of my reviewers, new and old! You guys rock.

Historical Note: The fact that Lightoller and Mudoch got knocked back a spot in positions actually happened. Wilde came in to take their spot, and Davy Blair got kicked out altogether. From what I've read, no one's really positive on why this happened. And it's also historically correct that Lightoller and Wilde absolutely did _not_ get along at all. Not sure why that is. . . yet. Anyway, enough blabbering. On with the story! Enjoy, and don't forget to review! :-D

ONE: LIGHTOLLER             

APRIL 7, 1912

1:04 PM

            First Officer Charles Herbert Lightoller let go of a breathy sigh as he pulled his heavy pocket watch from his vest. The gold lid clicked back, the thin hands told him that it was shortly past thirteen hours. _One o'clock._ He reminded himself silently, tucking the watch back into his vest. _Not thirteen hours._

            He reclined further back in his seat, linking his fingers behind his head, looking around the well-furnished conference room aboard the R.M.S. _Titanic_. Paintings, posters, and shadowboxes adorned the mahogany-paneled walls; a long, twelve-seater cherry wood table was in the center of the room. Two enormous windows overlooked the Southampton docking area, and sunlight was streaming in. 

            Lightoller shifted in his chair, another sigh escaping his lips. Five minutes now since Thomas Andrews had disappeared to search for his cousin, who was unbelievably late. Andrews, thinking she had merely gotten lost, went to search for her.

            _If she can't even show up for a simple meeting. . ._ Lightoller thought, annoyed. _. . . imagine what she's going to be like at sea. She'll be worse than we thought—a damn slacker instead of a damn nuisance. _

His mind drifted, and for once, he let it do so. 

            It had been three days ago that Lord William James Pirrie, managing director of Harland and Wolff Shipbuilders, came to the captain of the RMS _Titanic_ with an announcement. Pirrie had asked of the captain that there be a new position on the voyage, and that it should go to his niece, Ellen Wallace. The position was formally known as Assistant to the First Officer, and required that an officer—even a junior officer—fill the position and help out wherever he—in this case _she_—could. Her main duties (some more specific than others) were, of course, to the First Officer, but also to the other officers if they should require minor assistance. 

            At first, Captain Smith had been completely against the idea. He, like the rest of the officers, thought that a female on the bridge would cause nothing but trouble. Women and the sea absolutely did not mix, especially when a sixty-ton vessel was involved. Lord Pirrie finally had to threaten Smith with recalling his position as captain for the voyage if he didn't allow Wallace on board. Smith then gave in.

            Lightoller shook his head slightly, and his eyelids lowered to a cynical glare as he remembered the reaction of his fellow crewmembers when they'd first heard about The Girl coming aboard. To say the least, all of them had been slightly teed off. Lightoller had been teased almost non-stop about having to have a female officer-in-training on his heels the entire voyage. The jokes never ended, and ranged from the clean ("Watch her try to get Lights into a corset!") from the downright vulgar ("D'you get to share a cabin? The crew's quarters come with only one bunk, you know!"). 

            Lightoller jerked himself back to the present as a tiny click sounded; he looked toward the door only to see the golden handle turning. Someone was entering, and Lightoller scrambled to his feet.

            The door opened slowly; on the other side was a wiry girl of twenty-eight. Lightoller's eyes widened quite a bit when he saw that her arms were streaked with what appeared to be motor oil; she held a rag in her right hand. Her left still hung onto the doorknob. Her cheeks were pink with a blush. _She's not pretty_, Lightoller found himself thinking. _But she's not exactly for the birds, either. _His eyes traveled over the lace trim on her cotton-blue dress, which was stained with dirt and dust. He cleared his throat. "May I help you, miss?"

            She was still uncertain, but ventured, "Are you Mr. Lightoller?"

            An impossible thought dawned on him. _Is this Ellen Wallace_? "Yes, that's me."

            She let out a small breath of relief. "Good—then I've got the right place." she stepped forward and held out her right hand, which was oil-free due to the rag. "I'm Ellen Wallace."

            Lightoller blinked several times, then dumbly held his hand out as well. "You're Miss Wallace?"

            "All my life." she said as they shook hands. "Sorry about this. . ." she began scrubbing at the motor oil on her arms with the rag, but glanced up as she worked. "Hey, where's the captain? I thought he'd be here by now."

            "He's going to be late as well." Lightoller said, somewhat bewildered at her casual language. "He called an emergency meeting with the Chief Officer."

            "Huh," she said, trying to dust off her skirts now. Lightoller watched as she gave up on the dirt and grumbled curses under her breath. Finished, she straightened. "Chief Officer is Murdoch, right?"

            "That's correct." Lightoller said, his hands clasped formally behind his back. "Both he and the captain should be here presently. . ." he trailed off, still studying her. He noticed that the dark brown color of her eyes was flecked with green— just like Andrews'. Speaking of which. . . Lightoller cleared his throat. "What. . . er, what happened to Mr. Andrews?"  
  
            Ellen shrugged, self consciously reaching up to touch her hair, which was thrown carelessly back into a small tying cord. A lone opal pin still hung on for dear life near her left ear, evidence of a once-perfect do. "Actually, I have no idea. He told me where this room was and said he'd meet me here in five minutes." She looked down at her outfit and winced at the dirt on the lace trim. "Damn it." she said crossly. "That's the second time this week."

            It was one thing to hear her grumbling; it was quite another to hear a lady curse out loud. Lightoller, trying not to gape, said, "Second time for. . . what?"

            "Oh," she said, folding the rag in her fist. "Car stalled down in the road. It backed up traffic for nearly ten minutes before its owner and I could push it out of the way and get to work on it."

            "Get to work on it?" Lightoller didn't know how much more of this he could take.

            "Yeah," she said, still tugging self consciously at her dress. "Poor guy hadn't had an oil change since he got the car. It came out all runny and nasty. . ." she shook her head. "By some miracle the man had a few oil canisters riding around in the back."

            "You know much about automobiles?"

            "Oh, yes, sir." Ellen said, smiling a little. "Very much."

            Lightoller was in denial. There was no way that this first-class woman—that is, she _had_ to be first class, because of her expensive dress and formerly-done hair—had gotten down on the side of the road in the dust to climb under an automobile and change the oil. Did women in general even know _how_ to change the oil? _Well,_ said another part of his mind. _This one does._ And no first-class woman he'd ever heard had said "damn it" so casually. And, he noticed, even though she was cousin to Thomas, she had no such accent as his. In fact, her accent was American.

            "You're not from western Europe?" was all he could say.

            "No." Ellen told him. "My mother was, but my father was an American, and before I was born, he moved back to New York with her."

            "Oh." Lightoller said, then swallowed. Enough was enough. "Well, as you know, you'll be assisting me in the next few days. Do you know of your duties?"

            "Most of them, yes." she said, her serious eyes meeting his. "You'll probably have to help me with some of the more minor ones, though."

            "Not a problem." Lightoller assured her, then suddenly felt very at ease. He'd been expecting to have to be uptight and respectable to the point of near worship, and had expected her to think it normal. But this couldn't be true with this woman. She swore and didn't think she'd committed a mortal sin; she spoke casually and calmly. Lightoller—as well as most of the deck officers—enjoyed their motor cars just as well as the next man. "Have you heard at which times you'll be on bridge duty with me?"

            "Ten in the morning 'til two in the afternoon," she said. "then ten p.m. until two a.m. Or, if you want to get technical—ten to fourteen, then twenty-two to two."

            Lightoller couldn't stop a smile. "Yes, you're right. Well then, I pre—"

            The doorknob turned again; both Lightoller and Ellen turned toward the door as four men strode quickly into the room. 

            The first to enter, Lightoller noticed, was Captain Edward James Smith, his trim white beard and stature making him look as though he was a fraternal twin of Robert E. Lee. He drew his hat from his head, looking clean and handsome in his dark officer's uniform. Sixty-two years old and less than ten days from official retirement, he moved easily across the room and to the other side of the table, drawing his hat from his head.

            The hair on the back of Lightoller's neck stood up as he saw the second man, and goose bumps shot up his arms. The man, a taller, younger gentleman, was wiry but stocky. His dark hair was combed neatly under the cap that he, too, removed, and he looked fairly dashing in his newly pressed officer's uniform. The man had an air of being fairly pleased; it appeared that he was working very hard on not seeming too happy. Lightoller's hands subconsciously balled into fists behind his back. Henry Tingle Wilde was the man's name, and in the world of the White Star Line officers, it was well known that Lights and Wilde, to say the least, did _not_ get along well.  

            Lightoller, still glaring at Wilde, almost entirely forgot the slightly shorter officer who was the third man to enter. He looked neither pleased nor depressed, but was very stiff and composed. And yet he seemed slightly drained, as a college student might appear after final exams. Lightoller's eyes narrowed slightly, wondering what was amiss with the Chief Officer, Will Murdoch. He and Murdoch were close friends, having worked together on many a previous occasion, and they'd been looking forward to a new voyage. It didn't hurt that the trip included being Chief and First Officer of the newest and grandest ship in the world, the one right under their shoes. 

            Thomas Andrews was the last to enter, a look of resigned confusion upon his features. Though his hair was going gray, he was only thirty-nine; it was years of hard work that resulted in the loss of pigment from his wavy locks. He smiled gently at his cousin, who was still standing beside Lightoller, and then made his way to the other side of the table with the captain.

            "Forgive us, Mr. Lightoller." Smith said smilingly, heading for the other side of the table. He glanced around, catching sight of Ellen. "Mr. Andrews, is this your cousin?"

"Yes, sir." Andrews said, fighting a smile as he noticed that Wilde and Lightoller were already glaring at one another. He turned to Ellen and smiled again, putting a comforting hand on her shoulder. "This is Ellen Wallace."

            Smith smiled slightly. "Charmed, I'm sure." he said, reaching out his hand to shake hers, and was surprised at the tight grip of the girl's hand.

            "Honor to meet you, sir." Ellen said sincerely.

            "You met Lightoller. . ." Smith continued.

            Ellen half-smiled at her mentor, who returned the smile. "Yes, sir, I did."

            Smith gestured to the young man. "And this here is Mr. Wilde. . ."

            Wilde and Ellen shook hands; Wilde smiled rambunctiously and raised the girl's knuckles to his lips. "_Enchante, mademoiselle._" he said, almost sarcastically, and Lightoller had to fight not to go over and kick him.

            "_Moi aussi, monsieur, merci_." Ellen returned, her half-smile still in place but turned slightly acidic as she caught the sarcasm. Lightoller watched as Wilde's eyes widened slightly, stunned that she actually understood him. Ellen smiled sweetly back at Wilde, her look plainly stating, _You do that again and I'll kick your ass._

            "And finally we have Mr. Murdoch."

            Murdoch hardly glanced at her, smiling shortly and quickly. "Miss Wallace."

            Ellen, taken a little aback, only said a quiet, "Mr. Murdoch." as they shook hands.   

            Smith scratched the back of his neck. "Mr. Lightoller, you know Misters Wilde and Murdoch."

            "Mr. Wilde." Lightoller said, with a sharp and quick drop of the chin, and looked away as quickly as he could. "And Mr. Murdoch." he allowed the briefest smile to show to his friend. Murdoch hardly looked up; his hands were clasped behind his back, and his eyes were dull and tired. _What the bloody hell is eating him_? Lightoller thought, then suddenly glanced at Wilde, and again took in the brand-new officer's uniform. _Wait just a moment. . . why's Wilde wearing. . . could it be that. . . it's. . ._

            "Well, let's take a seat," Smith said. He, Wilde, and Murdoch—in that order—sat down on one side of the conference table. Lightoller sat down across from Smith, Ellen on his right, and Andrews on Ellen's right. Smith opened his portfolio and drew out a stack full of papers. "Before we begin," he said. "there's been a change in plans."

            "A change, sir?" Andrews said, clearly thinking it was about his cousin.

            Lightoller noticed that Ellen's hands were white-knuckled as they gripped the armrests of her seat; she obviously thought it had something to do with her, as well.

            "We've shifted things around slightly." Smith leaned back in his seat, folding his hands, glancing at Wilde. "We have a new Chief Officer."

            Lightoller felt his stomach do a somersault; he tried to swallow, but his mouth had gone completely dry. If Smith had made Wilde the Chief Officer, then certainly that would be bumping Murdoch back a spot, into the position of First Officer. Which would in turn kick Lightoller back. . .

            "I've asked Mr. Wilde to step in." the Captain continued. "And I'm sorry to report, Mr. Lightoller, that you'll have to take over as Second Officer. Mr. Murdoch has been informed that this change will take him down to First Officer."

            Wilde did not smile; his eyes bored into the smooth tabletop. Lightoller's eyes, however, were blazing; he could hardly breathe. Not only was he losing his position of First Officer, but _Henry Wilde_ was going to be Chief Officer. Henry. Wilde. _Henry Wilde, Chief Officer_! He glared furiously at the man, who didn't meet his damning stare. Lightoller looked back up at the captain, who truly did look sorry. Lightoller managed to say, somewhat hoarsely, "What's to happen to Mr. Blair?"

            David Blair, before this moment, had been Second Officer. Smith cleared his throat. "Mr. Blair will remain here, in Southampton. This way, the officers beneath him will be able to keep their positions."

            Lightoller felt sick to his stomach. No wonder Murdoch looked so depressed. "If I may ask, sir--" Lightoller started.

            "No, Mr. Lightoller, you may not." Smith interrupted him.

            "Excuse me, captain." It was Ellen who spoke up, and all eyes turned toward her. She hesitated all the attention, but locked her eyes with the captain's. "Sir, did this. . . shift. . . of positions have something to do with me?"

            "Absolutely nothing to do with you." Smith reassured her. "It was of my decision, and mine only." he glanced around at the group. "Now that we've gotten that settled, there's going to be a slight change as far as Miss Wallace's duties are concerned."

            Lightoller suddenly realized that Ellen would no longer be serving under him, but under Murdoch, who straightened slightly in his seat, looking even more depressed than before.

            "Instead of Mr. Lightoller," Smith said to Ellen. "You'll be assisting Mr. Murdoch."

            "Yes, sir." Ellen said quietly, noticing that Murdoch did not meet her eyes.

            "Your duties will remain the same, as well as your shifts on the bridge and breaks."

            "Understood." she said, still not sure what to make of the new first officer.

            Smith glanced at Lightoller, then at Wilde, and spoke their names. "You're not being forced to stay," he told them. "If you wish, you may stop by to bid farewell to Mr. Blair."

            "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." Lightoller stood up as Wilde did, and the two men exchanged another glare. Lightoller allowed the chief officer to exit first. "Pleasure to meet you, Miss Wallace." Lightoller said as he left.

            "Same," Ellen said, looking back at him, smiling again. 

            "See you around on deck." _Well_, Lightoller thought to himself as he headed for the bridge. _At least I won't have to stay with The Girl the entire trip._ And he was surprised to realize that he was a little disappointed.

            But only a little.


	3. Two: Lightoller

Author's Note: I have absolutely no excuse for getting this out so late. I'm sorry! *runs far away, and fast, too* And I apologize for the rotten formatting in earlier chapters, and probably in this one, too. Also, I'm positive that no one in this time period would ever have said "this blows" or "don't have a cow" (too much Simpsons, here), but I don't really stick to the lingo with my characters, anyway. If it bugs you, well. . . don't have a cow, man. But thanks to everybody for your reviews! You guys are great.

TWO: LIGHTOLLER

April 9, 1912

14:25

            Charles Lightoller lowered himself slowly onto his bunk in his room in the crew's quarters. His back was ramrod-straight; his hands rested properly over his knees, and his eyes were straight ahead, staring unseeingly at the wall. _Second officer._ The title played again and again. _Second officer. Not first officer. Second officer. _

He looked down at his hands, and realized that they trembled. The ramrod broke; he drew his knees up and leaned against the wall on the other side of the bunk, wrapping his arms around them. He felt considerably odd—the word was _vulnerable_. He hadn't been expecting this sudden kick back in positions. And to lose it to _Henry Wilde_. . . his blood practically boiled at the very thought of the man. _Henry Tingle Wilde_—one of the few men in the shipping business he'd come to dislike with the white-hot passion of a thousand burning suns. Of course, the burning suns part had been thought up by the all-too-literate James Moody, with whom Lightoller had worked with on a few previous occasions.  

            But it was just. . . Lightoller breathed deeply. Just that he was going to be first officer. On the grandest damn ship in the world. And now he wasn't. His duties would change. He'd lose £5 from his salary. The time of his twice-daily watch would change; he'd have to get used to an entirely different schedule. And he'd have to say good-bye to his close friend Davy Blair.

            "Lights." The voice came from outside his door, accompanied by several soft knocks. "Lights, open the door. I know you're in there."

            Lightoller took in a shaky breath, then rose slowly and leaned on the doorframe, cracking the door open an inch. He stared forlornly out at the dull-looking William Murdoch. "Come to wallow in sorrow together?" Lightoller said dryly.

            Murdoch sighed. "A little. Come on, I heard Davy's back in the crew's mess. He's heard the news, apparently."

            Lightoller looked down at his door handle, realizing somewhere in the back of his mind that there would be a shifting of rooms in the next twenty-four hours. "Is Wilde around?" he asked quietly, gray eyes serious.

            "Not that I've seen." Murdoch said, glancing to his left and right.

            "Alright, then, I'll come." Lightoller closed the door behind him, and together they walked down the hallway. A left turn, though a doorway, and they emerged into the bright sunlight of the deck. Several crewmen drifted about, but other than that, the decks were practically deserted. The two men were silent for a long while; Lightoller was the first to speak, and by then they were nearly at the crew's mess hall. "This _blows_." he decided grimly, and added, "Excuse my French."

            "Don't bother with that," Murdoch said, blue-gray eyes tired and drained from disappointment. "I agree completely."

            "Three months now," Lightoller said bitterly, folding his hands behind his back. "_Three months_ I've gotten used to the idea of first officer. And you—I'm sure you know all of the chief officer's duties by heart."

            Murdoch swallowed. "Won't deny it."

            "Why did they do it, anyway?" Lightoller burst out, thrusting his hands into his pockets—a most unprofessional action, and he didn't care one bit. "What's the point?"  
              
            "I've heard a lot of different theories." Murdoch said bitterly. "One is because Wilde held the position on the _Olympic_—"  
            

            "But you were there, too." Lightoller said. "As first officer."  
                        

            "Exactly." Murdoch mumbled. "I suppose they just wanted someone with experience with the _Titanic_'s sister."  
              
            Lightoller couldn't suppress a smirk, and Murdoch noticed. "Come off it, Lights." he said, managing a smile of his own. "And get your mind out of the gutter. I didn't mean it in that context."

            "Speaking of which," Lightoller said, slightly more cheerful. "What do you think of Ellen?"  
  


            "Miss Wallace?" Murdoch nearly snorted. "Hard to say. She sat there like a lump the whole meeting."

            "Well," Lightoller said, a little surprised. "I think you intimidated her."

            "How so?" Murdoch had the decency to look slightly put off.

            "You weren't very friendly," Lightoller muttered. "That is, you were behaving somewhat like a lump, as well."

            Murdoch grimaced. "You're too kind."

            "Well, I try. Here we are." They'd reached the crew's mess, and Lightoller pushed open the door, allowing Murdoch to go ahead of him. Davy Blair sat at one of the tables, leaning on the surface with his elbow, miserably stirring a cup of coffee. He looked up, dull shock in his shady green eyes. 

            "Good bloody morning." he grunted, and looked back to his coffee.

            "Come on now, Davy." Lightoller dropped down beside him. "It can't be all bad. At least you get to stay here with your wife."

            "Yes." Davy looked just as forlornly back up at Lightoller. "I know."

            Lightoller snorted. "Oh, of course. Sorry."

            Murdoch had seated himself on Lightoller's other side. "I hope that's not the only thing you're so depressed about."

            "Of course not." Davy knocked back a swallow of the hot coffee, graying hair flipping back a bit. "I've been looking forward to this for God knows how long. And I won't even have the chance to taunt Lights about Ellen. Who, just to let you know, makes an excellent cup of coffee." He took another swallow.

            "She made that?" Lightoller asked, staring at the mug as Davy put it back down. 

            "She did. Go ahead and ask her for some; she made a full pot."

            "Did someone want coffee?" Ellen stepped halfway out of the door to the kitchen, hair tied back, fashionable gown gone. In its place was a pair of run-down overalls and a light blue shirt. 

            For a moment Murdoch and Lightoller both just stared at her, stunned at the change of appearance—from stylish (though somewhat grimy) dress to—for God's sake—to _overalls_, as though she were some kind of factory worker. Lightoller managed a smile, however, knowing he shouldn't have been surprised. "We'll both take one, Ellen, thank you."

            "Sure." she disappeared back into the kitchen with a gentle smile.

            "What the blazes is this?" Murdoch said idly, tearing a paper doily into shreds. "She's an officer, not a cook."

            "_Junior_ officer, watch yourself." Davy corrected.

            "Sorry." Murdoch muttered, and glanced up again when Ellen entered with two mugs of coffee.

            "It's a little strong." she said, placing them on the table, barely suppressing a raised eyebrow at the pile of shredded doily in front of Murdoch. "Thought you guys could use the jump."

            "That we could," Lightoller agreed, already stirring sugar into his drink. "Thank you."

            Ellen nodded. "If you want any more, I'll be in the kitchen, or thereabouts."

            "You know," Murdoch muttered. "if you wanted to serve coffee for a living, you should have been a stewardess."

             Lightoller stared at him, wide-eyed. "_Will_!"

            Ellen's jaw clenched, but she managed a small and brief smile. "And if you wanted to insult people professionally, you should have joined the army." She turned for the kitchen. "Excuse me."

            Lightoller (and even Blair) was gaping openly at Murdoch, who was tearing up more of the already destroyed doily. The former looked back at the retreating junior officer, halfway to his feet. "Miss Wallace—"

            "Don't have a cow." she didn't look back. "There's more coffee in here when you want it. I'm sure you're more than capable of retrieving it yourself."

            Lightoller slowly sat back down. "I can't believe you." he said to Murdoch, wondering whether to be amused or upset. "I thought _I_ was irritated—could you have been anymore insulting to her?"

            "If he'd have given it another five minutes." Davy said dryly.

            "I'm sorry." Murdoch released what was left of the doily. "I'm just. . ." he sighed, drummed his fingers on the countertop. "I think I'm just tired."

            "No excuse, m'boy." Davy told him. "Next time wait till I'm out of earshot to insult her—she makes better coffee than my wife ever did, and I'll probably never drink it again." He looked forlornly into his now-empty coffee mug.

            "Well, maybe Murdoch can ask her what she does to it, if he ever lightens up." Lightoller muttered. He rose to his feet with a sigh, taking his coffee with him. "I'm going to go find her, and apologize _for_ you, my friend." He clapped Murdoch on the back, maybe a little harder than he should have.

            Murdoch ran a hand over his face, and he did look weary. "Thanks. I think I'll finish my coffee and then go. . . I don't know. Go somewhere."

            The door of the crew's mess opened; in walked Wilde, who noticed Lightoller and then immediately ignored him. "I thought I smelled coffee."

            "Coffee. Mugs. Kitchen." Lightoller said, and walked past him, heading quickly for the exit. "See you when we get back, Davy."

            "Bring me back her coffee recipe!" Davy called, then looked over at Murdoch and the paper shreds as Wilde went for the kitchen. "Will, quit tearing those things up." He stood up. "I'm off—I want to get off this God-forsaken boat. Have fun, don't give Wallace a hard time, and really, don't let Lights forget about that coffee."

            "Fine, fine, and fine." Murdoch managed a smile, and stood up as well. The two men shook hands. "Take care of yourself, and say hello to Charlene for me."

            "I will." Blair smiled. "See you in a few weeks."

            "Until then." Murdoch agreed, and sat back down to his coffee as Davy Blair walked out of the door. Will sighed, and looked at his watch, knowing his break would be over soon. The _Titanic_ sailed on the morrow, and he had yet to figure out what his first officer duties consisted of.


	4. Three: Wallace

Author's Note: I'm sorry! I'm sorry for getting this out so late! We've had a hell of a lot going on in school, plus track meets galore. . . next chapter will be out faster, I promise. And by the way,  I kind of screwed up the dates. Chapter 2 was technically supposed to be April 7th, but um. Oh well. Now it's the 9th, and so is this. And this does get better, I swear. Also, thank you to my reviewers! :-D You guys are the best. 

THREE: WALLACE

April 9, 1912

15:20

            I gritted my teeth and shoved my hands in my pockets, leaning against the doorframe. "That's the thing." I said, and Thomas' gaze was sympathetic as he sat down on the sofa. "I didn't expect to be accepted right away. I just. . ." I ran a hand through my hair, frustrated, and lightly kicked the other side of the doorframe. ". . . it's just that I didn't expect that the first officer would have such a hard time with it."

            "Give them time." Thomas said gently. "They'll come 'round. And I'm sure once Will gets to know you, you'll get along fine."

            I let out a long breath. "Yeah. . . well." I looked back at him. "He didn't have to insult me, though."

            "He's upset, is all." Thomas propped his head on his hand. "From what I heard, he got the letter asking him to be chief officer roundabout last July, and so for almost a year he's believed he'll have the next best spot besides the captain on this floating miracle."

            I couldn't stop a smile. "_Your_ floating miracle."

            "Aye, well." He grinned, too. "That she is."

            I shook my head, looking around his stateroom. His well-furnished stateroom, I might add. "How old was I when you started work on this?"

            He shrugged, eyes twinkling. "Old enough to care." There was a brief silence, and then, "I have an idea."

            "God help us." I grinned. "What is it?"

            "You're not going to like it." he warned, and his own smile faded slightly. "I think you should go apologize to Murdoch."

            I stared at him. "Beg pardon."

            "I think you should go to him and apologize for what happened. From the sound of it, you were just as insulting as he."

            "But he started it!" I protested, suddenly feeling very small. "I was just. . . I was. . ."

            One of his eyebrows lifted. "Yes?"

            "Just defen. . . defending my. . . ah, hell." It made good sense—maybe by apologizing, I'd break the ice, and maybe Murdoch would apologize, too, and we could put the afternoon behind us. "I hate it when you're right."

            "Mmm. Sometimes I regret it myself." 

            "But _still_. . ." I shifted uneasily. "I don't know. Lightoller came earlier and apologized _for_ Murdoch."

            "All the more reason for you to go to him, then." His look was pleased, almost teasing.

I let out a long breath. "All right, I'll go." I admitted defeat, and then said, smiling slightly, "But I won't have to like it."

            He grinned. "It'll be fine, Ellen. And you know where to find me if something's wrong."

            That I did. "Thanks, Thomas." I smiled back at him, and made sure to close the door quietly behind me when I went out.

*~*~*

            Mr. Lightoller was standing in the wheelhouse, reading over a page of notes with one of the quartermasters. I took a deep breath, and stepped toward him. "Excuse me, sir." I managed, and my voice was way too hesitant; I tried not to wince as Lightoller looked up.

            "Hello, Miss Wallace." he smiled fondly at me. "Can I help you?"

            "I'm looking for Mr. Murdoch," I said, wishing I could just call people by their first and/ or last names. "Any ideas?"

            Lightoller nodded. "Yes, I believe I saw him heading for his quarters not five minutes ago."

            "Thanks." I took a left, through the door that led to the corridor of the officer's quarters. My room was at the end of the hall, but from looking at some of Thomas's diagrams, I knew that the first officer's room was the second to my left. I hesitated before it, took in a deep breath, and then knocked three times.

            There was no answer.

            Frowning, I waited a moment, and then knocked again. I said (albeit somewhat quietly), "Mr. Murdoch, it's El—it's Miss Wallace." I half cringed; Lord, did that "Miss" sound funny. "Are you in there?"

            Still no response, but I thought I heard the floor creak. I strained my ears, wondering why the hell Murdoch wasn't answering his door. I waited another few seconds, bit back a frustrated sigh, and decided to start talking.

"All right, well, I'll just say it straight out." I put my hands on my hips, bracing myself. "I'm sorry about this afternoon. I didn't mean to be a prick." I scratched the back of my neck, feeling incredibly stupid to be talking to the clean, whitewashed door before me. "I think we got off on the wrong foot, and—well, seeing as how we'll practically be stuck together this entire trip, I just. . ." Okay. Enough is enough. "Yeah. I'm sorry. Mr. Murdoch, please, won't you open the door just for a second?"

            The door to my right clicked open; I nearly jumped out of my skin as Murdoch stepped into the hall, looking close to laughter. Wide-eyed, I glanced back at the closed door in front of me. Then, turning back to Murdoch, I managed something that sounded like, "Oshit."

            He moved closer and shook his head slightly; I could see now that his smile was almost cynical. "That was very nice, Miss Wallace, and I thank you. But, as I'm sure you've discovered, I am roomed over here." he gestured to the cabin from which he'd just emerged.

            I stuttered, "But—but isn't this is the first officer's—"

            "Yes, and I'll be moved in by this time tomorrow. If you will recall, I held the position of chief officer until Mr. Wilde stepped in."

            I bit the inside of my cheek, feeling even more stupid. "Forgot."

            "Apparently." He started to walk past me; I turned to watch him, but he stopped and looked back at me. "Oh, yes, and in about an hour, I'll need you to come down to the storeroom with me."

            I blinked. Storeroom—I knew what he was talking about; every officer had a duty to attend to before the ship left, but. . . wasn't checking out the storeroom the chief officer's job? I swallowed, and managed, "D'you mean the mail hold?"

            He blinked, too. "Pardon?"

            I didn't want to embarrass him further and widen the already Grand Canyon-esque gap between us, but I didn't want him to make a fool of himself in front of his fellow officers, either. Even though he probably deserved it. "You, um. Chief officer takes care of the storeroom. First officer does the mail hold."

            He shifted; I could see it dawning on him in his eyes. He remembered, and I waited for some sarcastic quip to come hurtling out of his mouth—but none did. Instead he mumbled, "Oh. Of course." Murdoch turned away. "Mail hold, one hour."

            "I'll be there," I promised, almost feeling sorry for him. 

            Not glancing back as he reached for the doorknob, he added, "And you'd better be rid of the overalls."

            Slight anger flared; I said, "Don't think they'll take kindly to me walking around in just my shirt and skivvies."

            He glanced back, anger flashing in his own eyes. "You were given a uniform. Wear it."

            "Yes, _sir_." 

            The door _wham_ed shut, and after a moment, I got my feet to work again and went to go change. 

            My blue dress was on a hanger over a post of my bed, brown dust still clinging to the lace trim, dirt smudged on the fabric. I closed the door quietly behind me, and made my way slowly to the dress. I scratched the back of my neck again, regarding it.

            It was a far cry from some of the elegant wardrobes the first-class ladies sported, but it was still a nice gown. Thomas himself, with his boatload of money from Harland and Wolff, had gone out and had me fitted for the dress—and then he paid for it himself. I was no first-classer; second class, perhaps—but either way, I couldn't have afforded this dress on my own.

            And then I'd gone and gotten mud all over it, because I some old guy hadn't changed his oil in five years. _He_ certainly hadn't wanted to get underneath his car, and there was no towel or anything for us to put down. And he didn't even know how to change the oil. . . that's what you take it to the dealer for, sir! The only reason I knew was because my father had worked at a small Ford dealer in New York city; he used to bring home cars all the time to work on the engine. 

But anyway. At least I could pay Thomas back, now that I was going to be earning some actual wages. And I could get the dress cleaned, and wear it again sometime soon. With a sigh, I turned away from it and pulled my newly pressed officer's uniform out of the small closet.

*~*~*

            I found an open seat beside Lightoller at dinner; he smiled and gestured for me to sit, then promptly introduced me to the other officers at the table. Murdoch was not among them yet. 

I could see it in their eyes—the officers weren't quite that comfortable with me yet. Not like I expected them to be, but the talk did die down slightly and no one really met my gaze.

            Henry Wilde, however, seemed to have remembered our introduction from the other day. "_Parlez-vous français_?" he asked across from me, which translated to, "Do you speak French?"

            I shrugged a bit. I knew _some_ French, but just enough to keep me floating should I go there—or to semi-tell-off Wilde. My mother had been a staunch teacher, refusing to let me leave home until I knew some of it. "_Un peu_." I admitted. A little. "Why, do you speak French to everybody you meet?"

            He smiled, although somewhat thinly. "I didn't think you'd understand."

            "`Llo." A newcomer dropped into the open seat beside Wilde, putting a book down on the table—but when I looked at his face, I was surprised to see that itwas slightly pale, but blotched with red, and his bright green eyes were damp. He sniffled, and offered a trembling smile. "What's dor finner?"

            Lightoller picked up the book, turning it over to the cover, grinning. "I don't see how you can read this as many times as you have, and _still_ weep like a child at the end of it."

            "It's beautiful, that's what it is. The whole book is just pure poetry." The guy sniffled again, and his smile was genuine as he looked at me. "I'm sorry—you must be Miss Wallace?"

            "That's me." I reached across the table to shake hands with him. 

            "Nice to meet you." he took a deep breath. "I'm James Moody. . . goodness. I apologize." He took his book back from Lightoller. "I'm a mess every time I read this."

            "Which one is it?" I asked, curious.

            "_A Tale of Two Cities_." Moody answered, unfolding his napkin. "Have you read it?"

            I smiled, recalling the tale. Everything else I'd read of Dickens had been dull as dishwater, but this story had gotten to me. "A few times." I told him. "It is good, though, you're right."

            Murdoch sat down on Lightoller's other side, letting out a long sigh. "What did I miss?"

            "James has gone and read Dickens again." Lightoller reported, and picked up his menu from his plate.

            "Ah, yes." Murdoch said, nearly grinning. The smile was startling; most of the day I'd seen him in a rather sulky mood. He nearly looked handsome, for Pete's sake. "Did Carton escape this time?"

            "I keep hoping he might." said Moody. "But it never happens."

            A waiter came around to take our orders, but most of us had hardly glanced at our menus. Still getting used to the finery, I picked mine up and started reading.

            Or tried. Consommé Olga? Roast Squab and Cress? What the hell kind of foods were those? "Um." I managed.

            Lightoller glanced over. "Having trouble?" he asked quietly.

            "Er. I don't know what any of this stuff is." I said back.

            "Just order the potatoes and lamb." he muttered back, pointing them out on the menu.

            I lifted an eyebrow; each was labeled with three or four completely foreign words. "Ah." 

            He chuckled slightly. "You get used to it."

            We finished ordering, and suddenly there was silence. Joseph Boxhall (whom had been introduced to be as the fourth officer) cleared his throat, and looked at me. "So, Miss Wallace. . . tell us about yourself."

            I nearly flinched, wishing he hadn't put me on the spot. I leaned forward anyway and rested my forearms on the table. "What do you want to know?"

            He shrugged. "The usual—where you're from, how you got into the business."

            I bit my lip. Every person at the table was watching me, Murdoch and Lightoller included. "Well, I was born in New York City and grew up around the harbor there. . . and Thomas—Mr. Andrews—is my cousin, so I came over here a lot. Here and Ireland. I was with him through a lot of the construction of the _Titanic_."

            I paused in the tale to take a breath. "And I guess he saw that I was qualified for this job and wanted me to take it." I swallowed. "But I heard that the position is being opened up all around the shipping business, so it's not just us."

            "Yes," Lightoller agreed. "I've heard that, too. Sounds agreeable, if you ask me."

            "True, but why first officer?" Wilde asked, and I could practically _feel_ Lightoller's defenses going up. "I mean," Wilde chuckled slightly. "You'd think the chief officer would have more duties than the first, and so would need more assistance."

            "Technically not, Mr. Wilde." Chairs scraped and everyone jumped into a standing position as Captain Smith entered; I shot to my feet beside Lightoller, somehow feeling very nervous. The captain smiled at us all as he reached his seat at the head of the table, and motioned for us to sit again—we did. "When one reaches the position of chief officer, he has done a sound job in the positions below it, and so deserves a sort of break. I'll have the _filet mignon lili_," he added to the waiter, and gave up his small menu. "I would say that the first officer is the man with the most weight on his shoulders."

            Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that Murdoch was holding himself very still, and that Wilde was looking somewhat disappointed. Lightoller was just plain smiling. The captain looked toward me, smiling; it took effort not to hide behind my water goblet. "Miss Wallace," he greeted. "How was your afternoon?"

            "Very well, sir." I said, managing to meet his eyes. "Thank you."

            Smith's twinkling eyes darted toward Murdoch for a moment. "Our first officer treating you well?"

            Ha. _No_. "Yes, sir." I smiled, seeing if a guilt trip would work. "He's a fine man."

            The captain nodded, satisfied, and sat back. "Tomorrow morning, we'll have a formal introduction for the officers and quartermasters." He glanced around the table. "I'd like us all to be gathered in the wheelhouse at six o'clock. The _Titanic_ is scheduled to leave at noon, and there is still a great deal to be done in the morning." His smile was warm and kind. "And I'm certain that each of you are just as excited as I to see her off."

            "Huzzah and amen." Lightoller grinned, and several hear, hear's picked up, but at this point dinner was delivered, and we dug in.

*~*~*

            "'A fine man?'" Murdoch quoted, actually holding the door for me as I stepped through into the officer's quarter's corridor. "Well. I'm honored. I had no idea you held me in such high esteem." 

            "What was I supposed to tell him?" I mumbled, hearing no sincerity in Murdoch's voice, fishing around in my pocket for my key. "That you were uncouth all day toward me?"

            "You were hardly any better." he retorted.

            "You started it." I said, stopping before my door, struggling to fit the key in the lock hole.

            "You continued it."

            The door opened. "Good night."

            "Six o'clock, remember."

            I closed the door and fell backwards onto my bed, exhausted. Today, Murdoch hadn't been much more polite to me—but at least he was kind of ignoring me rather than insulting me. And he was mostly sending me off on errands. "What a moron." I told the ceiling; it just stared blankly at me. I stared back at it a bit longer, then sat up and started to get ready for bed. A glance at the clock told me I had a mere six hours or so before I'd have to wake up.

            Huzzah, indeed.


	5. Four: Murdoch

Author's Note: I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so incredibly sorry, really, I am. Blame the homework. But to make up for it I made this cool LiveJournal for my Titanic story info and other Titanic stuff. You can find the URL in my author profile. Sorry again for the crappy formatting here. Please review if you can. This, um. Does get better. Next chapter is the actual launch—that will be fun.

FOUR: MURDOCH

April 10, 1912

4:54

He slowly blinked himself awake, found himself under a stack of soft blankets, and closed his eyes again with a long, deep sigh. Will Murdoch was deliciously drowsy, limbs still heavy with sleep, and he was so very comfortable. Yet he was still an officer, and his years of service hadn't taught him to snooze the morning away when there was work to be done.

He rolled onto his side, squinting through the dim blue light that escaped past the linen curtain over the porthole. On his nightstand, he located the alarm clock, and drew the apparatus before his eyes. The time was four fifty-five in the morning, five minutes before the alarm would sound. He turned it off, however, then returned it to the stand to lie back once more, smiling contently.

Murdoch linked his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling, wondering vaguely why he was so cheerful this morn—ah, of course. Today was the day, the day they'd leave port, the day the _Titanic_ would finally set sail. Or set engines, at least.

And for the moment, being first officer didn't even bother him much.

If only Ellen weren't there.

Murdoch sat up slowly and swung his socked feet onto the floor, running a hand over his face, the drowsiness suddenly not pleasant at all.

Why _was_ it that the two of them simply did not get along? Well, certainly because they snapped at one another. But why had they begun _that_?

He pondered it as he dressed, then as he shaved, and while combed his hair. He was sure Ellen was very kind, and she certainly seemed to be. And yet. . . yet with every look at her, he saw the title of _first officer!_ flashing before his eyes, saw Wilde instead of himself as chief officer. Ellen was the symbol of his defeat, the knowledge that, once more, Will Murdoch hadn't been good enough for the top spot.

Indeed, there had been times before that were similar to this. Oftentimes he'd applied for chief officer on various ships and liners—but always, someone better was there, someone who'd been in the business longer than he, who'd been first officer longer than he, always someone who was better.

The _Titanic_ had been different. Murdoch had been hand-picked by Smith, and Harland and Wolff. Told that only in the most grievous of circumstances was it even probable that he could fall back a position. Besides, such an honor could hardly be taken back. And this time it was worse—he actually didn't think he'd mind the switch, if it weren't for Ellen. He'd even talked to Thomas about it. The two of them were good friends, and the shipbuilder was always an excellent source of advice, even if his cousin was the one that Murdoch was troubling about. He'd merely said to lighten up and give it time, although those were easier said than done.

Ellen was extra baggage, someone who would be practically hanging on his arm the entire trip, always waiting to be told what to do. And she was a _she_—when was the last time anyone ever heard of a woman working a job like this, on an ocean liner? It was practically embarrassing to have a woman working with him.

At ten to six, hat under his arm, Murdoch glanced in the mirror to make sure that he looked decent, and took in a deep breath. He straightened his collar, made sure his tie was tucked neatly into his vest, and headed for the door and a long day. Emerging into the quiet hallway, he closed the door gently behind him, then wondered if he should see if Ellen was still in her room. Maybe he would remind her that they were to be in the wheelhouse at 6:00 a.m. _Oh-six-hundred hours_, he reminded himself silently, and paused before her door to knock softly upon it.

"Miss Wallace." He prayed that no one else in the general vicinity could hear him, and kept his voice low as he could. "Miss Wallace, are you awake?"

"Hang on." the voice was muffled, grumbled, and he could hear bed springs creaking and then slow footsteps shuffling toward the door, which cracked open two inches.

Murdoch blanched. Indeed, Ellen was awake—but it appeared that she had just rolled out of bed. She wore a rumpled nightshirt and sleep trousers, and her hair was slightly wild, eyes drooping from slumber. She squinted at him though, and glanced behind her toward her own alarm clock. "Mr. Murdoch?" she looked bewildered. "What are you doing awake?" She barely stifled a yawn. "It's not even five yet."

The man was practically at a loss for words. "Miss Wallace. . . it's five minutes to _six_."

"Not what my clock says." she squinted at him, and realized that he wasn't kidding. "Are you pulling my leg?"

"No." he shook his head. "Look, over there—" he gestured to the clock over the door to the wheelhouse. "Five to six."

She stared at him. Then, "Christ have holy mercy." she muttered, and moved quickly away from the door. It opened several more inches; Murdoch watched her fly to the small bureau and yank out the day's uniform. "Shit." she said, halfway between stunned and amused. "Shit, I'm not even dressed. Or combed." She pulled a shirt off a hanger on the door, and paused when she saw that Murdoch still stood there. "Were you going to watch, or what?"

Beet red, Murdoch stepped away and closed her door without a word. For God's sake, she wasn't even dressed yet and it was five minutes until they had to be fully ready and stationed in the wheelhouse. Captain Smith would skin him alive—or at least give him a nice, long speech—if the two of them were late.

But then, if he went ahead to the wheelhouse, he wouldn't be blamed for her tardiness. And he probably would be if he waited. With a frustrated sigh, Murdoch stepped down the hallway and pulled open the door to the wheelhouse.

The other officers, and many of the quartermasters, were milling around, chatting idly. Through the windows, Southampton was graying with dawn, and a light fog lingered around the harbor. Lightoller waved Murdoch over to his miniature cluster of gentlemen, and passed his friend a small cup of coffee. "You're late." he commented. "Sleep in?"

"I didn't. Thank you." Murdoch took the coffee. "Miss Wallace, however, is another story."

"Indeed?" Lights sipped his own coffee, while the young James Moody and Harold Lowe looked on. "What happened?"

"I just went to her quarters to see if she was up, and. . . well." he shook his head. "I suppose she's still getting used to this time zone. She was hardly awake."

Lightoller shook his head, amused. "She'll be here."

"I hope so." Murdoch took a swallow of coffee, and was surprised by its blandness as compared to the coffee he'd sampled the day before, the brew made by Ellen. That cup had been strong and nutty and seemed to kick at his stomach, while this stuff just tasted bean-y.

The door of the officer's quarters banged open, and Ellen stumbled out of it, her cap under her arm, uniform on and ready for the day. She looked slightly disgruntled, but mostly normal, her hair pulled hastily back into a knot at the back of her neck. Seeing Lightoller and Murdoch, she headed for them, gulping uneasily as she realized that several of the men on deck were staring. "Hi." she said finally, still looking half asleep.

"Tie?" Lightoller said.

She stared (and so did Murdoch). "What?"

"Where's your tie?" Lights gestured to his own dark tie, knotted perfectly at the collar of his white shirt.

"I had to have a tie?" Ellen ran a hand over her face. "Damn. Since when? Anybody have one I can borrow? Or will I—"

"Good morning." The door to the bridge opened and closed, and in between, Captain Smith entered, smiling broadly at the group standing in the lamplight. "I trust you've all slept well, but now we've got to get down to business."

The first order of it consisted of the introduction of the quartermasters to the officers, because the group members had come from so many different places but would be the ones working together the most. Murdoch knew most of the quartermasters and all of the officers, and he let his mind wander.

He wondered if they'd get ten minutes for breakfast. He wondered how much of a pain Ellen would be _this_ day. He stared dully at the floor when he remembered that when the _Titanic_ took off, he'd be at the docking bridge, instead of the forecastle—where the chief officer would have been.

When it came time to introduce himself, he forced a smile and told himself that he didn't sound monotonous. Name is William Murdoch. Born in Dalbeattie. Scotland. Thirty-nine years young. First officer. First officer. First officer. Damn it all, first officer.

Of course he didn't speak in that way—but his mind certainly did. He barely heard the rest of his shipmates. When they finally were dismissed for thirty minutes worth of breakfast, he found that he was starving.

Lightoller sat down first in the crew's mess, and Ellen sat next to him. Then, biting back a grimace, Murdoch lowered himself in to the seat next to The Girl. Talk was loud and friendly, an excited air hovering about the group. Professional though they were, today was leave-day, and everyone was buzzing.

"Wish they'd print these damn things in English." Ellen complained cheerfully, staring down at her menu.

"It _is_ in English." Lightoller said, half grinning. "Where else would you put 'scrambled eggs' into four words that don't even include 'egg'?"

"True." she let out a long breath, smiling back. "What're you guys getting?"

"Can't eat breakfast." Fifth Officer Harold Lowe sat back in his seat, pushing his menu toward his plate. "Just need a cup of coffee and I'll be fine."

"Not this." Murdoch gestured to his own coffee. "It tastes like dishwater."

"And how would we know _that_?" Lightoller prompted, and Murdoch couldn't stop a chuckle.

"Yesterday it was fine." Lowe said. "Really good, actually."

"Probably Miss Wallace's, then." Lightoller said, and glanced at her.

"You made it?" Lowe looked at her as well, mildly startled. "It was exceptional. What do you do to it?"

"Not telling." she smiled a secret little smile and looked back to her menu.

"That reminds me," Lightoller said, leaning forward a bit. "Miss Wallace, after you left yesterday, Mr. Blair asked me if I could ask of you what, exactly, it is that you do to make such an excellent brew."

She smiled again. "I couldn't say, sir. It's the family's recipe, and it's tradition for us not to tell anyone."

Lightoller looked at Murdoch. "Talk to her, Will." Lights glanced at Ellen. "If anyone can pry information out of someone, it's our first officer."

There it was again. _First officer_. "Let her keep her secret." Murdoch said mildly, forcing down another swallow of the bad coffee. "As long as she keeps making it, I don't have a problem."

There was a long silence; Murdoch stared more at his menu, Ellen absently stirred her own coffee, and Lightoller kept glancing at the clock on the wall. Lowe leaned back to study his menu better, and Moody had already buried himself in another book. Orders were finally taken, and the great silence loomed over them all again.

At last, Ellen cleared her throat. "What're you reading, Mr. Moody?"

He glanced up. "_King Lear_. Shakespeare."

Murdoch winced, and grinned through it. "Speaking of dishwater."

"I tried to read it once." Lowe said. "And gave up after the first three lines."

"Not one of the man's better works," Lightoller agreed. "Why don't you read one of his classics, like _MacBeth, _or even _Romeo and Juliet_?"

"Everything Shakespearean is classic." Moody argued. "Besides, I'd be laughed at to no end by all of you if I were to be caught reading _Romeo and Juliet_."

"Don't worry," Lowe said. "We already laugh at you to no end."

Moody grinned as the others chortled. "You're too kind."

"Mr. Murdoch, may I have a word?" Everyone at the table glanced up to see Chief Officer Wilde standing behind Murdoch, who said, "Certainly." to Wilde and "Excuse me." to the table. He rose and followed his superior to a spot by the door. "What is it?"

"Just a question," Wilde said, hat in hands. "I tried to find Captain Smith to ask him, but he's in his cabin. Where—where is it that I'm supposed to be at noon? For the launch, that is."

Murdoch swallowed. _Right where I was supposed to be_. "The forecastle."

"Oh." Wilde's face was actually somewhat disappointed. "I was almost hoping I'd get to be up on the bridge."

_You and me both._ "I'm sorry." Murdoch tried to smile. Wilde really was his friend; it was practically impossible not to be after years' worth of working together. . . and technically it wasn't Wilde's fault that he was brought in to be chief at the last minute, so there was no reason to really be angry. . . but still.

"It's nothing." Wilde shook his head, smiled back. "Well. That's all. See you up on deck."

"See you." Murdoch watched him go and then let out a long breath. Damn, but he'd wanted that spot on the maiden voyage. When he got back to the table, he saw that everyone already had their food. It seemed the excitement of the day reappeared with the rations, and talk among the table occupants picked up once more until Smith finally came to call everyone to their stations.

It was cool and calm out on the deck, the air damp but clean, gray dawn fighting the fog. Murdoch found himself breathing deeply, loving the smell of the ocean with the morning air. He didn't realize that Ellen was with him until she spoke.

"Excuse me, sir." she hesitated when he glanced over. "I just wanted to say that. . . that I apologize for quarrelling with you again last night."

He was surprised, but not much. "Thank you."

"And I—I'm sure that this isn't exactly easy for you, being first officer, and with the launch today." Her words came out in a rush. "But my job's to be the assistant—so just tell me what to do, and I'll do it. If I can help at all, tell me. And if I'm getting annoying, tell me to go away. This shouldn't have to be misery for you." she swallowed. "I guess it already kind of is."

He met her eyes, and saw that they were sincere, almost pleading. He nodded, and looked away again, wondering if someone would let her borrow a tie. "Thank you, Miss Wallace."

She looked away, too. "You're welcome."

He shook his head to clear it. "We're stationed on the forward docking bridge this morning. I suppose we should make our way there. Bert—Mr. Pitman—will be with us."

"Mr. Murdoch, Miss Wallace, if you please—" Captain Smith approached the two, who slowed to a halt and faced their captain. "—thank you. Miss Wallace, might I have a word with you?"

"Sure." She glanced somewhat confusedly between Murdoch and the Captain.

"Not to worry." Smith smiled warmly. "You're not in trouble."

"Oh." she let out a relieved breath, returning the smile a bit. "Guilty conscience."

Smith nodded toward the first officer. "Mr. Murdoch, go ahead to your station. Miss Wallace will only be a moment."

"Yes, sir." And as he headed for the docking bridge, Murdoch was taken aback to find that he felt very awkward without Ellen at his side.


	6. Five: Wallace

Author's Note: Now that school's out, I'll be dishing these chapters out about once a week. So, what's today, Tuesday? Every Tuesday I'll try to get one out. For in-depth historical notes, check the LJ, whose URL is in the author profile. But for brief ones: "Lord Pirrie" refers to Mr. Andrews' uncle, the managing Director of Harland and Wolff Shipbuilders. And I started to look up rooms for the passengers I have boarding here, but that got tedious, so I just started making up names and room numbers. And I was going to put the almost-collision with the _New York_ in here, but. . . I didn't. Maybe sooner or later I'll throw that scene onto the LJ. For now, please review. . . and enjoy. Hopefully.

FIVE: WALLCE  
April 10, 1912  
07:15

"Stop that." Smith said, smiling broadly. I stopped drumming my fingers on the wall behind me, and he shook his head, eyes twinkling. "You're not in trouble."

I swallowed. Kindly as he was, it was still hard not to get intimidated, especially with my job. "Sorry, sir."

He crossed to the helm and stood before it, looking the way a captain truly should as he gazed out the large windows. "I just wanted to say that, should any passenger choose to. . . speak his mind. . . to you today, you have my full permission to retaliate with whatever comes to yours."

I blinked. "Sir?"

"You heard me." his voice was steady and friendly.

I'd definitely heard him. Meeting his level gaze, I could tell that he understood exactly what I'd been worrying about since signing on—the passenger's reactions to my being onboard. I was sure that most of them probably wouldn't care at all. In fact, there was a huge group of third-class passengers who were going to be boarding that I knew personally. They'd worked in the shipyards at Harland and Wolff, and Thomas and his uncle had offered them free tickets. But there were some that I was worried about. I managed, "Thank you, sir."

He nodded, still with that friendly smile in place. "Of course. And the second thing—Thomas stopped by earlier this morning and asked that, if you have a moment of free time before the ship leaves, to try to find him."

I nodded, too. "Okay. Thank you, sir."

"Certainly. Now you'd better hurry down to the docking bridge before our first officer has a fit."

Yeah, right. Murdoch having a fit because I wasn't there. But I said again, "Yes, sir. Thanks."

Leaving the bridge, I felt kind of stupid. Seemed like the only words in my vocabulary were "sir" and "thank you". But that didn't really seem to matter at the moment, in light of what Smith had given me permission to do. _Hopefully none of the passengers will be crabby to begin with,_ I thought, and immediately chided myself with another, _Yeah, right.  
_

"Name, please, sir." I said for what felt like the hundredth time. And also for the hundredth time, I was given a look that was mildly surprised and then immediately nonchalant.

"Er, Herbert Chaffee. And my wife, Caroline."

I flipped through the list to the C's, and found his name. "Found you—you'll be in room E-31." He passed me his and his wife's tickets (she was smiling, and holding on to his arm), and I did my best to smile back at them. "Thank you, and welcome aboard."

After putting a checkmark beside their names, I glanced around, trying to see if Murdoch had gotten back yet. He'd run off at the last minute to supervise the lowering away of two of the lifeboats, along with Lowe and Moody. The way Bert Pitman explained it to me, a guy called Clark from the Board of Trade had come in, and was in charge of some kind of safety inspection.

Pitman now stood across from me with another clipboard, also taking names and tickets. There was a break in the flow of people, and we traded tired glances. "D'you have the time?" I asked.

He drew a pocket watch from his jacket and flipped the lid open. "Quarter to eleven." he said, and let out a long breath. "We're going to be here for awhile."

"No joke. Hello, sir, may I have your name?" Another man stepped in, this one trailing a wife and daughter.

"Tim Breckenridge." he said, smiling cordially, this one not forced at all. "My wife and daughter should be on the list as well."

It was so much easier to return the smile when the other person meant it. "Yes, sir, here you are. You'll be in cabins D-14 and 16." He handed me his tickets with a "thank you", and I said, "Thank _you_, sir. Enjoy the trip." Even the wife and daughter were smiling. Nice people.

The next man was older, and looked at me sourly. _Here we go_, I thought, and also recalled Smith's O.K. to me earlier. "Good morning, sir, can I take your name?"

"Are you an officer?" he asked, very suspiciously.

_No, I'm just wearing the uniform and doing an officer's duty. I'm actually a cook._ "Yes, sir." I said levelly, and out of the corner of my eye I saw Pitman watching.

This guy's eyebrows went up. "You're a woman."

_Really_, sir? I hadn't known. "Yes, sir."

He frowned, very concerned and confused. "I don't want a woman handling my ticket."

"Sir, all I'm doing is taking your name and putting your ticket in the stack here."

He was getting worried, now. "No. I said I don't want to woman handling my ticket."

Well, Pitman was so close by that if I'd sneezed and hadn't been covering my nose, he'd have gotten sprayed. "If you haven't noticed, Mr. Pitman is just right there, sir," I said, gesturing. "And of course, he is infinitely better at taking names and tickets than me, because he's a man."

This guy stared, anger creeping into his voice. "Are you being smart with me?"

No. "Yes, sir." I said kindly.

The man shook his head, disgusted. "Who is your superior officer?" he asked. "I demand to speak with him at once."

"Sir—" Pitman began, finished with his passenger, but lo and behold, Murdoch had returned from the safety inspection.

"I am her superior officer." he said, stepping up to us, his gaze not worried an iota. "Is there a problem?"

"The woman is a disgrace to her office," the man said, speaking simply. I kept my level gaze locked with his, but inside, I was mortified. Not only was I being insulted, but Murdoch was getting dragged into it. Suddenly I wished that Smith hadn't given me permission to speak my mind.

The people behind this man were staring as he continued. "I have _never_ met a more rude—"

Murdoch was calm, and so professional that I practically gawped at him. "And yet I do believe that it was you that was trying to provoke her. If it satisfies you, I will handle your ticket—we're holding up the line."

The man thrust his ticket at Murdoch, who read the name aloud to me. Trying to hide the fact that my hands trembled slightly, I found the man on the list, checked his name, and read him his room number.

"Might I have your names?" the man, Mr. Jones, asked bitterly. "That is, so that I can report the two of you to the White Star Line."

My heart skipped a beat with fear, but Murdoch drew himself to his full height—all five-feet-eight inches of it—and said regally, "I am First Officer William McMaster Murdoch, and this is my assistant, Ellen Wallace. Would you like it in writing? And there's an O-C-H, at the end of my name."

The man stared at us in disgust, labeled us with curse words, and sulked off.

I hadn't realized that I'd been holding my breath, and air burst out of my lungs in relief. It was short-lived, however. "Did I just completely blow it?" I asked dully, but Murdoch shook his head.

"Lord Pirrie couldn't dismiss us over this. He knew that this sort of thing was bound to happen. Good morning, miss, welcome aboard. May I take your name?"

I bit my lip, frustrated. It seemed like the more I knew of Murdoch, the less I understood him. With anyone else, his sticking up for me would have been an act of friendship and kindness, rather than the duty it was to keep me from getting in trouble with a passenger. He hadn't told off that guy because he wanted to help, no matter how much I wanted to believe that he had.

I swallowed hard as Pitman moved back into place, and thanked Murdoch anyway. "Well, thank you for saving my a—bum." I changed my mind as an older couple stepped up.

"Mr. and Mrs. Peterson. . . ah, yes. Room A-54. Enjoy your stay. You're welcome." The last part he said was directed at me, and there was almost no emotion behind it.

I didn't know whether I wanted to kick him or to burst into tears. That had been damn humiliating, being scolded by that guy like that in front of all those passengers. And then Murdoch sticking up for the both of us had been impressive, but he just dismissed it like it was nothing, like this kind of thing happened every day—don't worry, I'm used to her acting up, now give me your ticket and we'll have this behind us.

We got through the next person before Murdoch spoke up again. "Your cousin was walking around on deck, and he asked if he could see you now, Miss Wallace."

Even with Murdoch, I hated that sound. "My name's Ellen, sir."

"Fine. Ellen. But if you wish to go, feel free—just be back within the half hour."

"Yes, sir, I will be." I passed him my clipboard and stack of tickets (he didn't meet my eyes), and I hurried off to find the staircase to the boat deck.

The sun was bright and high overhead, the air thick and salty. The crowds on deck were thick; people were gathered all about the port rail, waving to the thousands of people crammed in the street below. And it was still practically an hour before we left.

Thomas found me first, and hailed me from behind. "Ellen! Over here!"

I turned to see the most welcome sight in ages—not only was Thomas there, but his wife Helen and two-year-old daughter Elizabeth were with him. Helen had practically been a sister to me in all the years I'd known her, and Elizabeth was the cutest thing on two legs. "Hey!" I greeted happily as I drew near.

"Hey, yourself!" Helen pulled me into a one-armed hug, Elizabeth in the other arm. "Ellen, you look lovely!"

"Thanks." She looked nice, too, in her cream and mauve afternoon dress. "So do you." I grinned at her, and Elizabeth laughed happily. "I didn't know you were coming."

"Don't get too excited; we're not." Helen said, shifting Elizabeth to the other arm. "I just wanted to see Thomas and the ship off, and to say hello to you before it got too late." Elizabeth reached toward me with both arms and said, "Eh-wen!"

"Thanks." I was slightly disappointed that Helen wouldn't be coming along; it would have been nice to have a female companion on the trip. But at least she'd shown up at all. "I'm sorry you're not staying. But how are you, and Elizabeth?"

"We're fine." she beamed at Thomas. "Nervous, too, I suppose—I believe my husband is about to burst at the seams."

"Into a hundred tiny pieces." Thomas agreed, holding one hand up; it trembled slightly, but he was grinning.

Helen took it, and kissed it. "You're too anxious. Everything will be fine."

Thomas shook his head, letting out a deep breath. "You're right. You always are."

I gulped, not wanting to interrupt their time together, but Thomas seemed to sense my discomfort. "How's it going with Will, Ellen? Has he lightened up at all?"

"Enough to call me 'Ellen' and not 'Miss Wallace'." I told him. "He's just stubborn, I think."

"Well, so is his assistant," Helen said, and I couldn't stop a smile.

"Good point." There was a brief silence, and suddenly I wanted to go below decks again, and leave them alone to say their farewells. "Hey, uh, I'd better get back down there. We've still got tickets and things to sort."

"Of course." Thomas smiled. "Go ahead."

"Nice to see you again," I said as Helen and I exchanged another hug. "Take care of yourself, and Elizabeth." I grinned at them. "See you later, Thomas."

"See you."

"Good-bye, Ellen. Take care of yourself."

"That was quick." Murdoch said when I arrived at my post again.

"Glad to see I was missed." I said, and took up a clipboard once more. The crowds weren't as thick now, but people were still boarding. The next people in line were a red-haired woman with whom appeared to be her daughter, a young man, a maid, and a manservant.

_Talk about wealthy_, I thought, hoping that Murdoch would handle this group. He did, partially: "Good morning. May I take your name?"

The woman's cold eyes swept over me once; I held my head high and wondered why I hadn't chosen to stay with Thomas longer. "DeWitt Bukater." she said to Murdoch, voice low and disapproving. "Ruth and Rose."

"And Hockley, Caledon." The guy stepped up to me, eyes telling me that there was something very funny. "Are you an officer, miss?"

I hunted for his name, and didn't meet his eyes. "No, sir. I just wear the uniform to confuse people. B-54. May I have your ticket?"

He didn't know whether or not I was kidding, but he handed me his ticket with a short and false smile. The woman, however, was glaring. "You will hold your tongue, young lady." she instructed. As though she were my mother.

"Tell him to hold his first."

She was flabbergasted. "Well, I never—"

"_Next_!" Murdoch said, and firmly but gently moved DeWitt Bukater Senior out of the way. Her daughter looked somewhat ashamed, and whispered a small, "I'm sorry," as she went by, and the maid offered a quavering smile. The manservant didn't even look toward me.

There was no "next", though, not yet. "This is ridiculous," I said, leaning against the doorframe. "I'm just causing trouble down here."

"Does them some good, if you ask me." Pitman muttered, walking over to set down his stack of tickets. "Sometimes it can be a healthy thing to get one's skirt ruffled."

I smiled at that, but Murdoch sighed. "In all my years of this," he said. "I've never seen the passengers act this way."

"In all your years of this, you've never had a woman working this position." I pointed out.

"That, too." he agreed, and I marveled at the fact that we weren't arguing. And actually having a conversation.

"Well," Pitman said. "Either way, we've got to get underway soon."

I watched as Murdoch removed his cap, and ran a hand through his hair tiredly. "Thank God," he said. "We've been here too long."

"Just a week or two." Pitman reminded him.

"Yes," Murdoch said, and I actually saw a smile surface on his lips. "As I said, we've been here too long. Good morning, sir, may I take your name?"

Forty more minutes and the crowds in the street were swelling, and so was the crowd on deck. At five till noon, crewmen began to unchock the gangplanks, and Pitman and a crewman closed the heavy iron door to the outside with a final-sounding slam. Pitman turned the crank that kept it closed, and when he turned around again, he was beaming. "Come on," he said, the excitement clear in his voice. "Let's go topside."

The three of us left our clipboards and tickets for the pursers to sort, and we quickly found the staircase that led to the top deck. Without warning, the entire ship shuddered and a distant, hardly noticeable vibration picked up. "Engines," Pitman said eagerly, and a shrill whistle blast sliced through every panel of every wall. It was so loud that it hurt my ears, and it rang out several times.

Then it was up a corridor, out a doorway, and into the blinding sunlight of high noon. The whistle-horn blew again, steam issuing from its vent on the forward most funnel, and the noise blocked out the deafening cheers of the crowd. When we emerged onto the deck, and moved aft along forecastle, it was clear that it was Smith who was tooting the whistle; we could see him through the large windows on the bridge.

"Hoi!" The three of us turned to see Henry Wilde waving at us from the starboard rail; Lightoller was with him—and even he was looking pleased (though whether to be leaving or having company besides Wilde, I'm not sure). "Get over here!"

We complied, seeing as the starboard rail was practically empty—everybody was crammed over on the port side of the boat. "Everything work out alright this morning?" Wilde wanted to know, grinning like a madman. The mood this afternoon was infectious; I couldn't help but to smile along.

"For the most part." Murdoch glanced at me as he said it.

Wilde noticed. "Good. That's. . . yes."

Suddenly the deck lurched under our feet, and we all leaned over the railing to see the five—count 'em, Jesus, _five_—tugboats pulling us away from berth 44. A collective cheer went up from the crowd, roaring through Southampton as the ship finally, _finally_ moved.

I wondered vaguely where Thomas was. After years of work, the moment was finally upon us—just like that. I hoped he was above decks, and that Helen and Elizabeth had chosen to stay in the crowd.

"Well," Pitman said at last, looking around at us all with a broad smile on his face. "I do believe we're finally under way."

Truer words were never spoken.


	7. Six: Murdoch

Author's Note: For historical notes, see the LiveJournal. Oh, and I wanted to say, I don't think the real Wilde spoke French, and if he did, it probably wasn't to the officers. But Thank y'all for the reviews :-) If you can, leave one for this chapter. Thanks!

SIX: MURDOCH  
April 10, 1912  
18:00

He knocked softly at her door, and there was no answer; he tried again, louder, and still received no reply. Frustrated, Murdoch tried the door handle; it was unlocked, and opened easily. With a gulp, he glanced inside at her room; she was fast asleep on the chair at her small desk, head resting on her arms.

"Mi—Ellen." he said, catching himself. "Wake up." Amazing how peaceful she looked when she was sleeping. "_Ellen_." he said again, and she jumped slightly, lifting tired eyes to stare up at him drowsily.

"What happened?" she mumbled, lowering her head back down onto her arms to observe him.

"Nothing, yet, but we'll be in Cherbourg in fifteen minutes. We'll be needed down on the docking bridge again."

She sat up, leaning back in her seat to stretch. "Okay, thanks." She yawned, and looked at the officer. "Hey, do you have a tie I can borrow?"

"Er. . ." The last thing he wanted to do was let her borrow one of his ties, but he did have them in abundance. ". . . yes. Do want it right now?"

"Yeah, might as well." She stood up, grabbing her jacket from the back of her chair. "If it's not too much trouble."

"No, no trouble at all. I'll be right back." Damn it. He'd hoped that maybe the girl could have mooched a tie off of Lightoller, or even Wilde, but of course she'd asked him. Why wouldn't she? She was his charge, after all. He stepped down the hallway and went to his own room, unlocking the door swiftly with his tiny brass key. He opened the closet, selected one of many black ties, and re-locked the door behind him as he left.

She was tying her shoes when he got back to her room and passed her the tie. "Thanks." she said, and tried to offer a smile.

The first officer returned it for about half a second. "I'll be headed for the docking bridge, then." he said, and departed, heading first for a stop at the crew's mess, wanting a cup of tea before the load of passengers and dinner.

The second he entered the room, he could smell the fading aroma of the delicious coffee he'd had the day before, and all resolve for tea faded away. Murdoch wove around tables until he reached the kitchen door, where he cautiously pushed it open. The kitchen itself was empty (on the voyage, only breakfast and lunch were arranged in the crew's kitchen), dinner to be brought up later by several of the stewards from the main kitchen. A large, three-quarters-of-the-way-empty coffee pot stood on the stainless steel countertop, a bowl of sugar beside it.

Murdoch poured himself a cup and stirred in three lumps of sugar; he drank the coffee down cold in four large swallows. Almost immediately he could feel the caffeine jittering around in his veins. He shook his head to clear it, amazed that such a character as Ellen could make such a cup of coffee. At this rate, he'd probably never drink tea again.

With a small _clink_, he set his coffee cup (tea cup, really) in the sink and headed out, this time aiming for the docking bridge.

When he got there, Bert Pitman was waiting with his clipboards, now with fresh sheets of passenger lists—but thankfully, Murdoch noticed, far fewer sheets. "Seen Miss Wallace?" Bert asked. "I thought the both of you should have been here by now."

"I'm here." she was approaching, but her tie, instead of being—well, tied—was hung loosely over her neck. "Sorry—I'm having a bit of an issue, here."

"This is a guess," Pitman said. "but does it have something to do with your tie?"

"I couldn't tie the damn thing to save my life." she admitted, looking apologetically between the two officers, rearranging said accessory under her collar. "Anybody want to give me a hand?"

"We'll see." Pitman stepped forward, knowing that Murdoch wouldn't; she let him take both ends of the tie and attempt to knot it. "I've never tied one _for_ someone—I imagine it's. . . oh, bloody hell." He de-knotted it, and tried again. And again.

It was getting frustrating to watch. "Here." Murdoch said, stepping forward, and Pitman moved out of the way. Ellen looked at the first officer uncertainly, but offered the ends of the tie, which Murdoch took. He suddenly wished that he hadn't offered his help; it required them to stand fairly close together. There was a deafening silence as he worked, looping one end over the other, doing his best not to bump her. He finally took hold of the thinner end and moved the knot up the tie until it rested at her throat.

"Thank you," she said, and stepped back, looking to the clipboards, moving a hand up to grasp the knot.

"Too tight?" Murdoch asked, and immediately chided himself: _What do you care?_

"A little." she didn't look up; instead she read over the names on the passenger list.

Pitman, feeling the tension, said, "Will, I heard something about you not being here the whole time, for this?"

"Oh," Murdoch said, remembering. "You're right. The captain and Mr. Wilde will not be on deck, so I'm the senior officer for the evening—I have to keep going between most of the stations to make sure everything is going properly."

"Where are they?" Ellen asked. "Captain Smith and Mr. Wilde, I mean."

"They're at dinner with the passengers." Murdoch said, and added, "It'll be the two of us that have to dine with him and his friends tomorrow."

She'd been holding a pen, but it slipped out of her fingers to clatter onto the tabletop. "What?" she managed.

He wondered vaguely why she seemed so worried. "Each night he dines with a different officer in descending order of rank. I suppose we come two to a package, because he's informed me that the two of us will be with him when he sits with his high rollers tomorrow evening."

She blinked, said a quiet, "Oh," and looked back down at her papers.

Murdoch and Pitman traded glances, but at that moment, the minute vibration felt from the depth of the ship calmed and stopped, and it almost seemed to grow quiet. "They just stop the engines?" Ellen asked after a moment.

"I believe so." Murdoch said, looking out the port window. There was a city on the land now, rather than just countryside. "We'll drop anchor any minute."

Any minute came and went. The large door was cranked open; the _Normadic_ approached from the docks with her smattering of passengers; gangplanks were brought out, and more passengers loaded onto the ship of dreams. The _Normadic_ emptied out; the _Traffic_ was brought in, and still more passengers boarded.

Down in the forward docking bridge, there wasn't much trouble—at least as far as Murdoch could see. Each time he stopped by, Ellen wasn't snapped at, and no passengers had any problems. . . except for the second to last group.

Murdoch was piling tickets on the table near Ellen, and glanced up to see the lead gentleman hand Ellen his group's tickets. But then the man really looked at her and realized that she was, indeed, a "her". "Oh," he said, and reached out to grab his tickets back and pass them to Bert, who looked flabbergasted at the man and apologetic toward Ellen. The girl herself swallowed and backed a few steps away from the group, looking hurt but attempting to hide it.

The last passenger boarded, a woman traveling alone. She had a trunk in either hand, and he dropped one of them to dig out her ticket. Apparently she'd noticed how rude the group before her had been. "Damn idiots." she said, not bothering to keep her voice low as she passed her ticket to Ellen. "Never you mind them, honey. Margaret Brown."

Murdoch watched a relived smile form on Ellen's lips as she hunted through her passenger list. "Welcome aboard, Mrs. Brown. You'll be in cabin A-24."

"Thank you much," the woman said, and picked up her bags again with a half-wink. "You keep up your good work." She and the other group glared at one another as she passed.

Murdoch shook his head as Ellen approached the table with her tickets. "Your people skills are incredible." he mused, with a hint of sarcasm.

"Go to hell," she said kindly.

Bert snorted and dropped his own stack of tickets onto the table. "Well," he said, clapping Murdoch on the shoulder. "Who's ready for dinner?"

The first officer looked up at the clock on the wall; it was five until eight. "I most certainly am."

"Me, too." Ellen added.

Pitman grinned. "Well then, let's go, and let the crew take care of this." he gestured toward the gangplank; already there were crewman detaching it. "I'm starving." He led the way to the crew's mess, Murdoch right behind, Ellen following in their wake.

Later, it was she who woke him, only his door was locked, and he was curled up on top of the sheets. "Mr. Murdoch." Her voice was hesitant; she knocked harder on the door. "Our watch starts in twenty minutes."

It was dark in his room; he hadn't turned on a light before he'd begun his nap, and he fumbled blindly to the door, snapping on the light before calling, "I'll be out in a few minutes."

He sighed to himself and stretched slowly, hearing her footsteps leave his door. If he were still the Chief, his watch would be over in twenty minutes, not just starting. Now it was off to stand on deck and stare into space for four hours—then roam around more than a mile of decks for another hour. It took effort to shrug into his jacket and greatcoat, and pull on his leather gloves, but he did, and hurried to the deck.

The bridge was brightly lit, glowing against a black, star-studded sky. Ten miles distant, to the east, the black ribbon of land glowed with the lights of night. It was chilly out, but not cold—not like what was waiting for them out in the North Atlantic.

"Evening, Lights." Murdoch greeted the second officer, who was stationed on the starboard wing of the bridge.

"Evening." Lightoller said, gazing contentedly over the sea ahead of them. "And a nice one, at that."

"Yes." Murdoch agreed. "Anything I should know about?"

"I don't think so." Lightoller rubbed his eyes tiredly. "Everything's in order. We just need to keep on course and we'll be in Queenstown at oh-eight-thirty tomorrow morning. Then it's due west to New York."

"Good deal." Murdoch nodded, and remembered a chat with the Captain that he'd had earlier. "Oh, and I was going to ask—do you know where the binoculars are? I've been looking for them and I haven't had any luck."

Lights shook his head. "I've no idea. Ask the lookouts." he waved his hand toward the crow's nest, where the guard was changing.

"I will. Keep an eye out, won't you?"

"Certainly." Lights smiled reassuringly, and clapped his friend on the shoulder. "Well, I'm going to be off on my rounds. The sooner I'm done, the sooner I can sleep, eh?"

"Mmm." Murdoch agreed. "Cheerio, then."

"Cheerio." Lights gave a friendly wave as he headed off the bridge, and just for a moment, it felt to Murdoch as though they weren't in this disposition on the _Titanic­—_it was as though they were back on the _Olympic_, and all was right with the world.

Murdoch sighed, but made his way over to the station of telephones, and hit the line that connected with the crow's nest. A long ring met his ear, and then a merry, "Evening, sir!"

"Evening, Mr. Fleet." Murdoch grinned. If anyone ever had a happy word, it was Fred Fleet. "Just wanted to know if you or Mr. Lee have any idea as to where the binoculars have escaped to."

"Damned if I know." Fleet muttered. "We figured one of you officers had them."

"Not that I know of." Murdoch said. "Thank you, though. I'll let you go."

"Aye, sir, thanks."

With a hollow-sounding click, Murdoch hung up and turned back toward the starboard wing—only to find Ellen standing on the bridge, staring out ahead, hands linked behind her back. Somehow it made him uncomfortable. "Miss—_Ellen_." he corrected himself.

She turned. "Yes, sir?"

"Can you stop by the wireless shack and ask the operator on duty if we've anything to be on the lookout for?"

To his surprise, it looked for a split second as though she were fighting a smile. "Yes, sir." she said, and "Excuse me." as she brushed past him.

Half of him didn't trust her; he drifted closer to the door of the wheelhouse; beyond it was the wireless room. He hoped he could listen in without being obvious; he glanced toward Quartermaster Hitchens at the helm. Hitchens merely stared blankly out ahead.

". . . to know if. . . anything. . ." Murdoch could only catch wisps of the conversation.

"Bloody coast. . . going to jam us up if. . . nothing. . ." he recognized Harold Bride's voice, sounding rather peeved. And then there were footsteps in his direction; he moved back to his spot just as Ellen reemerged.

"Nothing to be worried about, sir." she reported. "No ships to look out for—at least not on our watch, and the weather's acting fine."

"Thank you." he, too, returned to staring ahead, and after a time moved out to lean on the starboard wing rail.

And thus it was—endless minutes of staring into space, of taking reports from random departments whose crew members drifted up from the innards of the ship, of trying to recognize constellations from his training years ago. Pitman reported for duty at midnight, and the two men talked jovially. All the while, Ellen stood by just inside the entrance of the bridge, staring out ahead, not saying a word. Murdoch found himself wondering what she was thinking, and after a time chided himself that he didn't care.

After an eternity, a sleepy-looking but cheerful Henry Wilde flounced onto the deck, his greetings almost all in French. For several moments, Wilde and Murdoch chatted over what to keep an eye out for, and then Murdoch was relieved of his watch with an hour of perusing the decks facing him.

Pitman agreed to walk with him, and once that was settled, Murdoch had to figure out what to do with Ellen. It appeared, however, that she'd already thought of a plan.

"Sir," she said quietly. "If you don't wish to take your rounds with me, then. . . then perhaps I could go a separate route, by myself."

He was torn between slight pity and agreement, but Pitman stepped in: "Nonsense!" he said. "You may walk with us, Miss Wallace. You're part of this club, after all."

She looked to Murdoch, still uncertain, but he forced a smile. "Indeed, I agree with Mr. Pitman. Let's go, then."

They took off, walking along the starboard side of the boat deck, the lifeboats large and quiet to their left. "Nice night, isn't it?" Pitman said, glancing up at the stars.

"Beautiful." Ellen said, voice quiet again.

Pitman looked over at her. "What's on your mind, Miss Wallace?."

She was slightly startled, but shook her head. "Nothing, sir."

Murdoch wondered if she were thinking about him, and how he'd been. . . less than kind on the voyage thus far.

"Hardly nothing." Pitman said. "I'd say _something_."

A moment's silence, then, "Is it true that—" Ellen burst out, then stopped, embarrassed, before beginning slowly again. "Mr. Murdoch, is it true that we have to attend dinner tomorrow evening with the captain? I mean, I know you have to go, but—"

"I was told," Murdoch said, glancing at his charge. "that you would accompany the captain and I to dinner on the second night out, no questions asked."

"In our uniforms?" she pressed.

"Did you want to go in your unmentionables?"

Even in the dim light, he could see her cheeks flame. "I just thought—"

"Yes, we have to wear our uniforms." Murdoch told her. "No fancy dress, no coat and tails—just our uniforms."

Pitman was staring at her now, concerned. "What's the problem with going to dinner?"

Murdoch realized, then, remembering how rude the passengers had been earlier in the day. And now the thought of actually having to _dine_ with them—to spend time in their presence . . . "Oh." he said. "It's the passengers, isn't it?"

She let out a long breath. "Well, no, it's just that. . ." she trailed off, and drew her hat off of her head to look up at the stars. "Yes, it's the passengers. If they behaved as they did at the docking bridge, then having to sit with me must be much worse."

"Well, maybe you can ask the captain if you can miss the dinner." Pitman said. "I'm sure that he knows your situation; he wouldn't put you through a nightmare for the sake of being social."

Ellen gulped. "Really?"

"I believe so." Pitman said, and clapped the girl on the shoulder. "Stop worrying. Everything will work itself out."

She nodded, trying to smile. "Thank you, sir."

They continued the walk in silence, finally changing directions upon reaching the stern. "So, Ellen," Murdoch said as they walked on the port side boat deck. "How long will you be staying with us on the _Titanic_?"

She looked slightly surprised, and for an instant, confused—as though wondering if he were really curious, or if he just wanted to know how much longer he would have to put up with her. But she said, "To tell you the truth, sir, I'm not quite sure. I do imagine that it will be for a good length of time—but you yourself won't have to stand me much longer."

It was his turn to be confused. "How do you mean?"

"Well—" she glanced from one officer to the other. "—you know, you're only first officer until we get back to England."

For a moment, he wondered if he'd heard right. "Beg pardon?"

"Smith didn't tell you?" Pitman said, looking surprised, and at Murdoch's own shock, continued. "Yes—once we get back to Southampton, the chief's duty is all yours. You didn't think you'd be first officer for the rest of the ship's career, did you?"

It had certainly seemed like it. "Well. . . I. . ." Murdoch stared at the two of them incredulously. "Are you sure?"

"If you want to call hearing it from both Smith and Wilde 'sure', then yes, I'm sure." Pitman said, grinning. "They only dragged Wilde in because he has experience with chiefing around on the larger ships, and they wanted to make sure that the maiden voyage is completely flawless and that the officers were in their most comfortable jobs."

"Ah." Murdoch said finally. "Well, I admit it. . . it did seem that I would be first officer for quite. . . some time."

"Yeah, don't worry." Ellen said. "In a few weeks, I'll be Lightoller's problem."

For an instant, Murdoch felt almost insulted—and then immediately somewhat embarrassed that he'd kept such an attitude toward Ellen. After all, he'd only have to put up with her for a little while, and then he'd have his true job back. It wouldn't be on the maiden voyage, but it would still be trips across the pond. _Chief Officer, William Murdoch_.

For the first time in what felt like ages, he smiled broadly, and meant it.


	8. Seven: Wallace

Note: My apologies for its tardiness and my apologies because I know I'll get the next one out late, too. If something looks weird in this chapter, ignore it. I'll find it later and be like, Oh, no, why did I post that without triple-checking. . . But I promise. . . someday this will be done. Stay with me. You guys are the best, you know. School work is sucking big time. Please review if you can find it in your heart to forgive me.

* * *

SEVEN: WALLACE

April 11, 1912

0714

I flew out of bed as four loudknocks rattled my door; still waking up, standing in the middle of the floor and swaying from dizziness, I forced out, "I'm _up_! Who is it?"

"Are you decent?" Murdoch's voice.

I glanced over at the mirror as stars faded. Disheveled hair, shirt, and sleep pants, but fully covered. Sitting back down, I said, "Decent as it gets this bloody early," and the door opened.

Murdoch was tucking his tie into his vest. "Hurry and get dressed. We've slept in, I'm afraid."

I glanced at the clock tiredly, and ran a hand through my sleep-tied hair. "It's only seven fourteen, sir—I just fell asleep twenty minutes ago."

"We'll be in Cherbourg in little more than an hour." he said, glancing back into the corridor. "And we should be down at the docking bridge again."

I struggled to my feet and went to the dresser to grab for a hairbrush. "Wonderful."

"Will you need a hand with your tie?"

I looked up, surprised that he actually offered help, and then for a second was speechless—the bright light from the window had hit his face, and his eyes sparkled handsomely. I hadn't noticed how blue-gray his eyes were, or how his hair (with the absence of his hat) fell just so to make him look quite attractive.

He frowned, however, and shifted uncomfortably, moving out of the light. "Something the matter?"

I shook my head, looking back down again. _Idiot_, I thought to myself. "Yes. I mean, no! Nothing's the matter. I meant yes that I'll need help with my tie."

Murdoch was looking at me rather oddly, but said, "Right, then I'll wait outside. And because we're both late as lawyers, I trust it won't take you very long." And the door snapped shut loudly behind him.

All fondness for his eyes vanished; I scowled at the closed door and for a minute considered picking up a discarded shoe and throwing it that way. But I kept my calm, pulled the tying cord out of my mangled hair, and quickly dragged the brush through it. When I finally had it secured into a knot at the back of my neck, I changed fast as I could into the day's uniform and opened the door. Murdoch was still in the hallway; I took hold of my tie and arranged it under my collar as I stepped closer. "Okay." I said.

He looked over, and said, "Tie help?"

"Please." I held up the ends of it; he reached out and took them. This time, he wasn't wearing gloves; I noticed them poking out of his jacket pocket. His hands were strong; I could tell just by looking at them, and there were calluses on his palms and fingers. This was a man who _worked_ for a living, not some upper-class businessman who sorted bills and filed letters.

Murdoch was standing a foot away from me. I tried to look anywhere else but at him, and his eyes, but it was very hard not to. For God's sake, we were standing so close that I could _smell_ him—aftershave and soap—which was not an unpleasant mix at all. The whole tie-tying took him about thirty seconds, but it seemed to me much longer, watching the tendons flex under his skin. At last he let go, and the tie wasn't as choking as it had been yesterday.

"Thanks." I said, and felt like I was moving through molasses as I turned back to my room to grab my hat from the desk by the door. I then headed past Murdoch, down the corridor. "You coming?" I asked, glancing back and still walking; he followed. "So are we going to get breakfast, or did you already eat?"

"I haven't." he said. "But I've heard that it's waiting for us in the crew's mess."

"Saints be praised." I said, stomach running on empty. "I'm _hungry_."

The door to the officer's quarters closed behind us, and then it was through the wheelhouse, onto the bridge, and then out on the open boat deck. The air was fresh and breezy, the morning slightly cool, but with enough heat in the air to tell that it would be warmer later in the day.

Murdoch walked at a pretty quick pace, but I matched his strides as we headed for the crew's mess, the land miles to our left moving past slowly. A steward was waiting for us inside; he hurried off to the kitchen when he saw us. The only other person in the room was Wilde, looking sleepier than ever.

"Morning," Murdoch said, moving to sit at his friend's table; I followed somewhat awkwardly.

"Good morning." Wilde said, smiling, leaning his head on his hand and his elbow on the table. My mother would have smacked him, but it made me grin. "Did you two sleep well?"

"I did." Murdoch said, and pulled out a chair for me. I was surprised, but sat anyway, with Murdoch to my left and Wilde across from Murdoch. "I'll be back at it after our rounds today though."

"Yes," Wilde said, stirring his tea. "Same here." He looked at me. "In this business, you'll come to learn that 'sleep' becomes a foreign word."

"Trust me, I'm a fast learner." I said, and Wilde chuckled.

"How was dinner last night?" Murdoch asked, just as a bunch of stewards appeared from the kitchen and placed two identical plates before the two of us. Each dish had a pile of scrambled eggs, and two hotcakes. A boat of maple syrup was also put down, as well as small bowls of oatmeal.

"It was just about as good as that looks." Wilde said, gesturing to our plates.

"Want some of mine?" I asked, marveling at all the food. "Don't think I can eat all this this early in the morning."

"Actually. . ." Wilde was fighting a smile. "What don't you want?"

I held up the bowl of oatmeal. "All yours."

"Thank you!" he took it, grinning now, and added syrup to it from the boat. "So, about dinner," he continued, stealing one of Murdoch's extra spoons. "It was delicious. I have to admit, the food here is infinitely more appealing than the selections on the _Olympic_, and that is saying something indeed."

"What of the company?" Murdoch asked, adding syrup to his hotcakes. "Were they. . . agreeable?"

"Very, in fact." Wilde reported around a mouthful of oatmeal. My mother would have exploded by now. "And I had the pleasure of sitting with your cousin, Miss Wallace." he smiled warmly at me. "Fine man. Knows his boats, he does."

"Indeed he does, sir." I smiled back, heart lifting. If I had to go to the dinner, and we sat with Thomas tonight, then everything might turn out all right.

"Yes, he was friendly, and so were the rest of the people. Nice group. Somewhat chatty, but harmless." He chewed his oatmeal. "_Damn_, but this is good. You don't know what you're missing here, Miss Wallace."

"I'm sure I'll get around to the oatmeal eventually." I said, once more digging into my breakfast. "But for now, I'm content with all this."

"Ah, good morning!"

Murdoch dropped his fork, Wilde nearly choked on his oatmeal, and I practically sent the syrup boat flying as we scrambled to our feet in time for Captain Smith to reach the table. "Morning, sir." the three of us chimed in unison, and we all traded glances.

Smith grinned. "Mr. Wilde, you're needed on the bridge."

"Yes, sir." Wilde gave a long look to his beloved oatmeal, put on his hat, tipped it to us with a smile, and headed out.

"And the two of you know your duties for this morning?" Smith asked Murdoch and me.

"Yes, sir." we said again, and once more glanced at one another, but Murdoch wasn't finished. "Sir," he said. "I believe Miss Wallace had a question for you about the dinner tonight."

My face burned with embarrassment. This wasn't how I wanted to ask this! Smith looked at me. "Of course. Fire away."

Pushing back thoughts of bloody vengeance on Murdoch, I forced out. "Sir, I. . . I'd like to request permission not to attend the dinner tonight."

To my surprise, the captain smiled empathetically. "I know why you would ask, Miss Wallace, but let me assure you that the company I dine with is infinitely more respectful than some of the characters you encountered yesterday at boarding. I wouldn't subject you to ridicule."

I gulped. "Sir, I. . ."

"Oh, and of course, because you'll be wearing your uniform, I've arranged for a hairdresser to. . . to attend to your hair, if you wish it."

I stared at him; his eyes were twinkling and friendly. "That's. . ." I looked at my hands, grateful and humbled. With my hair done, I wouldn't look quite as. . . quite as officer-y, and maybe a little more ladylike. "Thank you, sir."

"Of course." When I dared to glance up, his smile was warm. "Well, I'll leave you two to finish your breakfast. Report to the bridge as soon as you're able."

"Yes, sir." Murdoch this time; I could only nod weakly. The captain offered a final smile, and was gone.

I sat back down, hard. "Well." I said, staring down at my half-eaten breakfast.

"At least we won't have to stay at the dinner very long," Murdoch said idly, picking up his fork again. "We've got to go back and prepare for our watch."

"Thank you, God." I said, appetite returning. "Even if they are friendly, there's still other people around that aren't. . . the sooner we get out of there, the better."

"Amen." Murdoch said, and once again, I was baffled that we weren't arguing over something.

* * *

I stifled a yawn, but was unable to keep my eyes from watering because of it. Luckily, however, nobody seemed to notice. Hitchens was at the helm, Murdoch was standing out on the right wing bridge. Fifth Officer Lowe had run off to do something or other, and Sixth Officer Moody stood several yards to my left. 

I was busy staring straight ahead—at the point where the dark blue of the ocean stopped, and the clear, bright blue of the sky began. No longer was there any brown or green in front of us—it was just water, as far as the eye could see. And behind us, Queenstown was shrinking fast.

It had been a fairly uneventful board, and nobody had insulted me—not even Murdoch. Most of us were too tired, I suspected, but now didn't really care—we were really and truly on our way to New York.

A door snapped open behind Moody and me; I didn't turn, and neither did he, but from the corner of my eye I could tell that the Captain had entered the bridge, and now (as he moved into my line of vision) was heading for the stand right next to Murdoch. His voice was distant when he spoke, and I didn't understand the words, but suddenly Murdoch was stepping down from the ledge and heading for the bridge.

He was fighting a smile (which didn't fade even as he glanced at me), and looked toward Moody. "All ahead full, Mr. Moody." he said, reaching for the engine-telegraph lever.

"Very good, sir." Moody grinned moved forward, as well, and both levers rang out as the dials were turned toward "full ahead".

Knowing Thomas and his workers, if there was one thing men loved, it was the affect of speed on machine and man. Knowing my father and his auto industry, men were obsessed with speed and motorcars. Even I had to admit, there was something inexplicably thrilling about charging down a country lane with the wind forcing itself cold through one's hair while the landscape blew by. Here, it was amazing to feel the slight but steady pickup of the engines far below us, to feel the ship move forward a bit.

The largest moving object in the history of creation, and it was speeding eastward at top speed. _Doesn't get much better_, I thought, grinning in spite of myself as I looked at the other officers. Moody was beaming; even Murdoch looked giddy as he went to rejoin the captain. Quartermaster Hitchens, at the helm, was sporting a comfortable half-grin.

At this point, Lowe emerged from the crew's quarters area, holding a saucer with a cup of tea on it. I watched from the corner of my eye as he walked toward Murdoch and Captain Smith, and as he passed the ensemble to the latter. Lowe returned to the deck; muttered to Moody and I, "I didn't sign on to this to be some bloody tea-boy."

A silent pause, and seconds later, he said—"Are we moving faster?"

Moody chuckled. "Twenty-one knots, Mr. Lowe."

While Lowe goggled over this prospect, I glanced over at the captain and Murdoch. What hair he had that was poking out from under his cap was wavering in the strong breeze, and in his eyes, even from this distance, was the clearest expression of the most calm delight.

Somehow it made me smile. I don't know why, but. . . just seeing him so pleased after these few days of disappointment was a welcome sight. _Not so bad being first officer, is it now?_ I thought. _Look at Wilde; he's not even here for this. _He_ didn't get to crank the lever to full-ahead._

At that moment, Murdoch glanced back at me.

Until a few moments ago, I would have quickly looked away—but he was smiling, and so was I, and suddenly my smile just broadened and I was grinning unashamedly at him.

His smile, however, faded slightly, and he looked back ahead.

So much for that good mood—for both of us.

* * *

"There we are." 

I looked into the mirror and was suddenly tremendously relieved. Elise the hairdresser beamed behind me. "Like it?"

"Yes." I reached up to touch the do; my hair had been piled at the back of my head very fashionably, and a navy blue, somewhat sparkling strand of fabric had been wound about it. The color matched the blue of my uniform. "It's perfect. Thank you."

"Thank _you_." She was proud of her work, grinning broadly in the mirror behind me. Technically, she was a stewardess—but a hairdresser on the side, all of twenty-four years old.

My fingers found one of the dozens of pins she'd applied to my hair; I said, "Where can I find you later to return the pins?"

"Oh, don't bother—you keep them. They're rather cheap when you buy them in bulk." She went about gathering her brush, comb, and other accessories.

"About ready?" Murdoch poked his head around the other side of my door.

"Yeah," I said, standing up, reaching for my jacket, and couldn't help but to touch my hair again. It was so rarely done like this. "How's it look?" I asked him.

"Nice." he said distractedly, in a voice that suggested he wouldn't have cared if I'd turned into Helen of Troy. "Listen, we've got to get down there."

I was a bit disappointed that he was so dismissive, but wondered what I'd expected anyway. "Right." I agreed, now putting my jacket on. Already I could hear the classical strains of music coming from the open door. I took in a deep breath. "Let's go."

Smith was waiting for us; we "good-evening"ed each other and headed down.

I immediately felt awkward and embarrassed. The ladies were all wearing elbow-length gloves, moody-colored gowns that hugged their frames like second skins, and elaborate hair and makeup jobs. I gulped, feeling extremely. . . beneath them. Many people called out to the captain, and even a few to Murdoch, and most sent confused and / or troubled expressions my way. Or they smiled so that the expression looked pasted on. All the while, cheerful notes from the band filled the air, and the buzz of chatter was loud and constant.

"Oh, dear." Smith said suddenly, stopping, and Murdoch and I nearly ran into him. My stomach had twisted in fear when he'd uttered that "oh, dear", but my fears worsened when he said, "I do believe our usual companions have filled their table. . ."

"Captain Smith!" a lovely woman in a deep blue evening dress rose from her seat at said table, looking quite embarrassed. "I'm terribly sorry; we've had more guests than I thought we might—we're full already." She smiled sympathetically but warmly at the three of us.

"Oh, that's fine, countess." Smith said, smiling back, and I felt my stomach do another somersault. Had he just said _countess_? "I'm sure we'll find another—"

"E. J.!" someone called, and I nearly jumped, recognizing the voice; the four of us turned toward another table some distance away, where a somewhat tall, brunette, and mustachioed man was waving for us. "We've saved you some seats!" It was James Bruce Ismay, and I could have cried from relief. From my dealings with Thomas, I knew Ismay well, and he was a close family friend. He recognized me and his eyes grew round; he grinned, waving more enthusiastically.

"You see?" Smith told the countess. "There will be plenty more opportunities to sit with you and your companions."

"Of course." she dipped her head slightly, still smiling genuinely. "Have a pleasant evening."

"Thank you, countess." Smith kissed her gloved hand, and moved off toward Ismay; Murdoch and I followed, lambs behind the shepherd. "Evening, Bruce!" he called, while the owner of the clump of iron around us grinned broadly.

"Bloody good to see the whole lot of you," Ismay said, beaming at us all. "I was beginning to become bored, what with only _this_ heckler to be amused with." Chuckling at his colleague, Thomas was approaching, also sporting a broad smile at Ismay's pleasant sarcasm.

"And I do become boring," Thomas joked, and he shook hands with each of us, sending a barely concealed half-wink my way. "You all look fit to dine before the queen."

"As do you both." Smith said, smiling broadly at the two men. "You don't happen to have a few seats available, do you?"

"In fact, we were saving some for you." Thomas gestured to the three empty ones; almost all the others were taken.

It wasn't until we'd seated ourselves (Murdoch on my right, Thomas on my left, and Smith on Murdoch's right) that I really got a good look at who all was seated at the table. One lady and her husband, I didn't know, but there was something very familiar about the mother and her daughter. . . I realized it as soon as the man with them sat down. The man with the dark hair, slightly tanned skin—and by the way he looked at me, I knew—it was some of the same people who'd taunted me yesterday at boarding.

Thomas introduced us all to them. The lady and her husband were Mr. and Mrs. Worsting, and the mother and daughter were Mrs. and Miss DeWitt Bukater. The man was Mr. Hockley. Feeling slightly sick to my stomach, I remembered checking their names off. The man was. . . Calvin? No, Caledon. And the mother and daughter. . . Ruth and Rose. All of them stared at me with extreme distaste, but I gritted my teeth and tried to smile.

"And what is your position?" Mrs. Worsting asked me during the first course.

I prayed for the waiters to come around. "Junior officer." I said, reaching for my water. "Technically assistant to the first officer, but other things, when they need me."

"What kind of things?" prompted Mr. Worsting. "Patching up uniforms? Brewing tea?"

I could feel my face burning. The men on either side of me were silent, rigid in their seats. I hadn't had that mother of mine for nothing, though. I folded my hands and placed my elbows on the armrests of my chair. "To tell you the truth, sir, I started making coffee for the men quite by accident. One of them sampled it, and the word spread that I could make a decent cup. But besides that, I do general duties—staying on watch, running errands, and collecting reports from various departments around the ship."

"And they allow you to do that?" Mr. Worstings chuckled, and so did Mrs. DeWitt Bukater.

I gritted my teeth. So much for eating with nice dinner partners. "Yes, sir." I said.

"So," Thomas said, rather loudly, leaning forward, a worried look barely concealed in his eye. "What do all of you think of the voyage so far?"

I glanced at Murdoch; he was looking down. I followed his gaze to see that he was staring at my knuckles—which were white as they now gripped the armrests. I released the chair, half trembling.

But by the time the first course rolled around, they were back on the subject of me again.

"So, Miss Wallace," Mrs. Worstings this time. "Are you married?"

Thomas's hand slowed slightly as he reached for his water glass. I ignored him, and looked the woman squarely in the eye. "I was." I said, and her gaze was surprised. I looked away. "Stephen died seven years ago this June." For a moment, Thomas's eyes locked with mine—he looked both sorry and encouraging.

"How did he die?" Hockley asked.

Did I have to answer all this? I glanced at Murdoch; he was very interested in the edge of his plate. Ismay had asked Thomas a question, and they'd started talking. I said, not wanting to relive this at _all_, "Car accident."

"Do you have children?" Mrs. DeWitt Bukater prompted, and this time Murdoch looked up at me, eyes stunned.

"No," I said to her, deadpanning. "I didn't want them to grow into rich millionaires that interrogate their dinner guests."

"I do believe that's enough," Smith said firmly, looking mortified as he stared between Mrs. Worstings and me.

The silence at our table throbbed in my ears. I looked down at my plate, too. "I'm sorry." I said softly, but DeWitt Bukater didn't say anything. I realized that I didn't have any appetite anymore, nor did I want to stay, but was worried that it would be an insult to leave. Not like they didn't deserve it.

The waiters came and took our plates, and suddenly DeWitt Bukater was in the process of announcing her daughter's engagement to the Worstings. My throat felt tight; I gritted my teeth and took a long swallow from my wine glass. It tingled down my throat and burned in my chest, and I welcomed the feeling. It was smoother than the hard beer I was used to, and I could breathe a little bit after I drank it.

The second course was presented in all its extravagance. Mrs. Worstings opened her mouth with her beady eyes looking right at me, but Thomas saw her and immediately turned to me to speak to me in a side conversation about the new Renault his uncle had bought before the trip. "What do you think of them?" he asked me. "I've heard it's a good car, but that performance falls off after awhile."

I took in a breath of relief and started talking to him; his eyes were understanding, yet at the same time he really did want to know about that Renault. By the time we got into gas mileage, I was smiling, and the rest of the table was involved in other conversations. The topic of automobiles took Thomas and I through this course, at which point we started comparing the engine of the _Titanic_ to that of a car, and even Ismay got in on the discussion. And then we ran out of parts to compare, and listened instead to the other topics.

"How lovely!" Mrs. Worstings was saying. "Soft pink and white—what a marvelous picture they'll make."

"Of course, Rose still isn't taking to the colors," Mrs. DeWitt Bukater said, glancing at her daughter, who was staring determinedly at her water glass, but she glanced up.

"Lavender would have matched the flowers you ordered." Rose said quietly, glancing at her mother.

"You know I can't stand lavender." DeWitt Bukater said, somewhat airily.

"It's her wedding, isn't it?" I said, and everyone looked at me, including Rose—except she looked less shocked than the rest. In fact, she gave a half smile—it almost looked like a thankful one. I shrugged, and looked down at my food stupidly. "If it were me, I'd figure I should be able to pick out what I was going to remember for the rest of my life."

"Is that the way it happened at your wedding?" DeWitt Bukater asked coldly.

"Yes," I said, looking up at her. "And it was the happiest day of my life."

"Yet it seems that that husband of yours didn't manage to knock any sense into you," Mr. Worstings muttered.

"I beg your _pardon_," I said loudly and furiously, dropping my fork.

"I beg everyone's pardon." To my surprise, it was Murdoch who cut the dead silence, and he rose to his feet. "Miss Wallace and I must be getting back to the bridge to prepare for our watch." He dropped his napkin onto his seat and looked down at me, offering his hand to help me stand up.

I stared at him incredulously, but took the offered hand. His plate was still half-full, and we hadn't even gone through the last course. His warm grip tight, he helped me to my feet and released my hand; he offered a short nod to everyone at the table and then headed toward the grand staircase. For a second I could only stare at him—this was no brush-off like him saving me the other night had been. But then I got my legs to work, and caught up to him. "What the hell was that?"

He glanced over, and there was something like rebellion in his eyes. "_That_, Miss Wallace, was a rescue."

I bit back a smile. "My name's Ellen."

"They were being rude and uncivilized." he continued, probably not even hearing my correction. "We don't have to stay and listen to that." He drew his pocket watch from his vest. "We've got another. . . I'd say another hour before we'll have to start even getting ready for our watch, but I'll be damned if I had to stay for their drivel a moment longer."

I licked dry lips. "Yeah." We trekked up the grand staircase. I took in a shaky breath, recalling what they'd all said about Stephen. For seven years I'd been pushing him and the accident to the back of my mind, and it was only within the last few that I'd been able to really get over him. I hated to talk about him—hated to remember. And not only had these people tonight made me remember, they insulted the man I'd loved. Then Murdoch had gone and rescued me from them. "Thanks," I said softly, not daring to speak louder.

He nodded, formal and distance again, and we were silent for the rest of the walk to our quarters.


	9. Eight: Murdoch

Author's Note: It is I, Katherine, with Chapter Eight. Hang with me, now. In one review I saw-- yeah, Jack was invited but the dinner in the movie was Saturday night. What I have here is Thursday night. Just clearin' that up :) Anyway. . . can anyone else tell this is going to be a longer story? Yeah. Er, reviews are like heated blankets to the guys in the lifeboats. Thanks for sticking with me, everyone.

EIGHT: MURDOCH

April 11, 1912

2057

She was sitting with her arms hooked over the railing, legs dangling into the oblivion below. Some of the sections of her hair were around her shoulders, and some parts of it were still pinned up. Murdoch frowned at the curious style, but understood when she reached up, fingers searching for another pin. She found one; another lock of hair fell, and she threw the pin over the railing, watching its long, arcing fall into the water. He was certain that he heard her sniffle.

His frown evaporated and his heart softened, as it had during dinner; he approached her, slowly. "Miss Wal—Ellen," he said, feeling very odd.

She'd jumped slightly at the first sound of his voice, but still didn't turn around. "Yeah." her voice was dead, and she no longer sought for another pin.

He took a deep breath, and pushed his hands into his pockets. "I just wanted to know if—well, there's tea and coffee brewing in the crew's mess, and I wondered if maybe you'd join me for a cup." He didn't know why he bothered asking. She wouldn't want to go with him; he'd been nothing but horrible to her since the trip started. But perhaps. . . she _did_ seem grateful that he'd gotten her out of dinner. . . although who wouldn't be—

She turned around, and her nose was red, eyes bleary from recent tears—yet one eyebrow was lifted. Her expression was cynical. "Like I'm going to submit myself to more ridicule."

He was taken aback. "Beg pardon?"

"I don't need any more insults from you. Or any crew members that might be there." She closed her eyes, and turned back around.

He licked dry lips, eyes narrowed—but with concern. "I assure you, I only wondered if you might join me in a cup of coffee. I don't know of any crewmen that are there, but if they are, they'll certainly be kinder than the dunces we were forced to sit with at dinner.

She didn't turn around, but turned her head slightly toward him, eyes on the cold white bar.

Murdoch tried again, more gently this time. "Unless you think the coffee itself will be insulting, I promise you that downing a beverage and maybe sharing a few non-insulting words were the only activities I had in mind."

She glanced back all the way now. "You serious?"

He nodded, expression softening. "Quite."

She bit her lower lip (his heart fluttered; he kicked himself mentally), then said quietly, "Yeah, sure I will." She climbed to her feet with ease, and ran the heel of her hand over her eye. Her half smile was apologetic as the two of them started to walk, and as she tied the blue strand in her hair around the pinless hair. "Thanks."

"Certainly." They didn't say anything else on the way to the crew's mess, nor did they speak as they prepared their coffee and tea, but the silence wasn't an uneasy one.

They took seats at the table where they'd breakfasted that morning, only this time they sat across from one another in the bright light. The windows were bright, deck lights weak but close. Ellen took a long pull of her tea, but Murdoch continued to stir his coffee. At last he said, "I didn't know you were married once."

She shrugged, setting her tea down, watching steam curl out of it. "You never asked."

"I just assumed you weren't." he said. "I didn't see a ring."

That half-smile was back, her eyes almost challenging. "You were looking?"

He smiled, too, and looked down at his drink. "Not really." Another silence, and finally Murdoch said, "Tell me about him, if it doesn't bother you."

She shook her head. "It doesn't." A sip of her tea. "Well. . . he was twenty-four when I married him—I was twenty. My dad wanted to have grandchildren, but Stephen wouldn't hear of it, yet. And then one day Stephen went out to test a new Model T for my father, and collided with another one." He watched her shoulders fall as she let out a long but silent breath. "He died the next day, and I've been back and forth to Europe since then."

He'd leaned back in his seat, fingers lightly tracing the gold trim on his saucer. "Did you love him?" his voice was soft.

She looked up, startled at the question, and then back down again. "Yeah." she said, eyes distant. "Only thing I had against him was that he never. . ." she shook her head, smiling sadly. "He didn't like that I was into ships, like Thomas. Or automobiles. He thought it wasn't a woman's place to be involved with them—which it isn't, really. Plus I was in a women's right-to-vote organization in New York. . ." she grinned. ". . . he hated that." She swallowed more tea, and met his steady and surprisingly understanding gaze. "What about you? You married?"

It was his turn for his eyes to grow distant as he looked unseeingly at his coffee. "Almost." he said at last.

"Almost?"

He shifted in his seat, smiling. "Her name was Ada—beautiful woman. But she cared nothing for the sea, or shipping—and I was hardly there because of my officer duties. And finally she said, 'Will, it's either me, or the ocean—you can't have both.'" He shook his head, and took a drink of his coffee.

"You chose the ocean." said Ellen.

"I did." he nodded, setting his cup down. "And I've never regretted the decision."

After a pause, she said, not looking at him, "Was she pretty?"

Murdoch tuh'ed. "Beautiful." She'd been envied by every woman across three districts for her looks. For a blissful year, her smile belonged to Murdoch alone—until the fact began to sink in to her that sea voyages were a part of his life, a way of living burned deeply into his blood. The voyages saved him from her in the end, too—when he was away he could step back and look at the situation clearly, saw that she was ready to turn to the next suitor at any moment. She did.

"However," he continued, "she wasn't for me anyway. . . the week after we parted, I heard that another man was already courting her—and quite successfully."

Ellen winced. "That had to hurt."

He shrugged easily. "I should have known. And it shouldn't have bothered me."

Quiet once more, and still, an easy one. Ellen finished off her tea, and hadn't even put the cup down again when suddenly, from outside, came the sounds of hurried footsteps on the deck. The door of the crew's mess banged open: Ellen jumped a mile into the air and turned in her seat; Murdoch jumped as well and turned his eyes toward the door.

Harry Lowe whipped inside, spun, and closed the door with much more consideration than when he'd first opened it. Then he hastened over a fell into the chair beside Ellen.

"_Hide me_." he said, Welsh accent buried in his arms, along with his face.

"What's the problem?" Murdoch was astonished. "Are you in—"

"There's a passenger." Lowe lifted his head, voice quick, eyes half wild. "She won't leave me alone—she keeps demanding that I bring her more bath towels, and she's complaining that her window won't open. I kept trying to tell her that I wasn't in charge of those things, and needed to get someone who is, and I think she followed me—good Lord." He shook his head. "If this is what a fifth officer does, then count me _out_."

"Did you tell her you'd get a steward?" Ellen asked, her eyes as concerned and worried as Murdoch's as their gazes met across the table.

"Tried to; she wouldn't listen. Kept harping on and now she's followed me."

"But I don't see—" Murdoch began, then changed his mind as the door burst open once more and an old woman in a thick blue bathrobe over a frilly nightgown stormed in.

"I would _like_," she snarled, inching slowly but surely toward Lowe, who paled, jumped up, and faced her, trying to back away. "some extra towels. And my window will not budge!"

"But it's thirty degrees out." Lowe protested, eyes wide, even as Murdoch and Ellen stood up. "It shouldn't be open any. . ."

"Ma'am." Ellen stepped forward and hesitantly placed a hand on the old woman's shoulder. The woman jumped and turned and squinted up at her; Ellen removed her hand. "I can get you help if you need it. Officer Lowe doesn't deal directly with passenger affairs—in fact, I think he was on his way to get a steward for you—" she started intently at Lowe, who nodded fervently as the old woman glanced back at him. "—but I'll gladly give you a hand."

"'Bout damn time." she muttered, looking between the officers. "Need some better service on this ship, I'll tell you. And windows that'll open after ten tries!"

"Would you show me your cabin?" Ellen asked quickly, and the woman led the way out with a final glare at Lowe. Ellen followed her outside, face worried but set.

Lowe said quietly, still slightly breathless, "Were you two sharing _tea_?"

Ellen stuck her head back in before Murdoch could reply; looking at him almost hopefully, she said, "Will you be here in ten minutes?"

Murdoch found himself smiling easily—amused by the old woman and warmed by the fact that Ellen wished him to stay. "Of course."

She smiled, too, quiet and relieved. "Good." And she disappeared again.

Lowe, recovering, said, "What was _that_?"

Murdoch lowered himself into his seat again, looking up at the younger officer. "How can you _ask_ me that after that episode?"

Lowe sat down hard into Ellen's seat, leaning his shoulder against the nearby wall. ". . . well, I. . . I snapped at the woman, then she wouldn't let me go."

Murdoch shook his head, slightly surprised. "You know better than to bark at passengers."

"I know. But she was so. . . _bothersome_. She wouldn't let me go fetch a steward."

"Then you're to handle it personally."

Lowe picked at the edge of the countertop. "Yes, well. . ." he trailed off. "Alright." he said finally.

There was a long pause; Murdoch sipped his tea, then spoke. "There's a large pot of tea or coffee in the kitchen, if you're interested."

"I'll grab a coffee on the way out." Lowe shook his head, and was able to smile back at his senior officer. "So." he said. "What's happened between you and Wallace?"

For some reason, Murdoch felt a shot of adrenaline to his insides, as though he realized that he was ten minutes late for his watch. _Woosh_. He shook his head, however, and fought a smile. "Oh, the people at dinner were being barbaric toward her. I got her away and she was. . ." he recalled finding her at the stern, teary-eyed, pulling hairpins out. ". . . upset. I invited her for tea."

Lowe looked sideways at him, fighting a grin of his own. "Thought you hated her."

"Really, Harry." Murdoch said, eyes shining as he traced the edge of his saucer. "Hate is such a strong word."

"Is 'completely disliked' better?"

"Not slightly."

"So are you two friends now?"

"I believe we're well on our way."

"_On your way_?" Lowe stared at him, grinning now. "Good God, man. She was sitting with you for _tea_."

"_Everybody_ drinks tea." Murdoch protested, feeling slightly defensive now. "I thought it would be a nice gesture."

"It is." Lowe shrugged, highly amused. "Just. . . very nice."

"_That_ was an adventure." The door opened and Ellen stepped inside, shaking her head. "What an old bat." She sat down and looked at her empty tea, then at Lowe. "You gotta learn to stick up for yourself more, Mr. Lowe."

"Don't call me mister if we're not before the captain." They were the same age; it made him uncomfortable.

"See? There you go." Ellen grinned. "_Lowe_."

Murdoch stared at her and told himself that he was doing no such thing. Ellen glanced over, held his gaze and kept smiling; he smiled too, and looked away, down at his saucer.

"But on the other hand." She idly twirled a packet of sugar in her fingers, turning back toward Lowe. "You know the passenger is always right."

"I'm just. . ." he sighed, picked at the tablecloth. "I don't know. I've. . . I've always been shy, and if people press me while I am, I get irritated."

Murdoch leaned back in his seat. "Aren't you still on your rounds, Harry?"

Lowe's eyes widened. "_Damn_," he murmured, sliding out of his seat and making for the kitchen. Murdoch and Ellen traded confused glances, but moments later Lowe returned from the kitchen, steaming mug of coffee in his hands. As he headed for the door, he said, "Thanks for your help, Ellen—and keep it up, Mr. Murdoch." And _click-click_ went the door behind him.

Ellen shook her head. "He's not a bad guy. Just needs to take authority, sometimes."

"Mm." he said listlessly, gaze intent on the tablecloth. He'd kill Lowe later for that last comment. . . but luckily Ellen seemed not to have noticed. Or cared.

Ellen's eyes searched his, though he did not see. "Well." she smiled again, prompting him to look up and actually return the smile. More softly, she said, "Thanks for rescuing me back at dinner."

He nodded, fuzzy contentment inside him. "You're welcome."

She shifted, as though to stand up. "And thanks for inviting me to tea."

"Certainly." He nodded once more. _Lord_, he thought. _She has brown eyes. No, green eyes. . . no, br—_

"I'm going to get ready for our watch." Ellen said, and really did stand up. "See you on deck."

"Right." he watched her go; she only glanced back once, as she was disappearing around the door, to smile slightly at him. He returned it, waited until her shadow had passed the windows, then sat back and marveled at himself.

Twenty-four hours ago, he'd—hell, forget twenty-four hours! This _morning_ he'd been furious at her! And then he'd gone and invited her to tea. "Next thing you know," he muttered to himself, gathering his coffee cup and saucer, standing up. "You'll be inviting her to sit next to you at dinner."


	10. Nine: Wallace

Author's Note: I, uh. Well, um. About 93 years ago today the RMS _Titanic_ set sail. Gotta give out a chapter for that, at least. I'm sorry, everybody. I swear, this will all get done eventually. It's just a matter of when. . . keep checking the LJ for notes and other such updates. Thanks for hanging with me. . . reviews would be so incredibly appreciated :-)

Historical Notes: Widows usually kept their dead husband's names, and though it's not historical—I use waking up scenes one too many times in this story. oO

* * *

NINE: WALLACE  
April 11, 1912  
2047

He opened the door and held out his hand to the room, inviting me inside; I slipped around the door, about to open my mouth, but he did first, expression grave and worried. "Ellen," he said gently, brown eyes large. "I'm so very sorry about tonight. I had no idea that they'd be so. . . so _vulgar_—"

"Oh," I said, suddenly remembering the dinner I'd escaped from more than hour ago. "I'd—Thomas, it's fine." I sat down on his sofa, and he sat down in a chair next to it. "I mean, yes, I was upset, but—but that's not what I came to talk to you about. It's—" I shook my head, not even knowing how to put this into words, grinning.

Thomas lifted an eyebrow. "The dinner's not bothering you any more, then?"

"Don't get me wrong," I assured him. "It bothers me. But it's just not—I don't know. Something else happened." He waited, leaning forward slightly. I said, "I'm getting along with Will. I mean, Murdoch."

He smiled broadly, eyes shining now. "You see?"

"He invited me for _tea_." I said, feeling exceptionally cozy. Content, for the first time in what felt like days. "We sat in the crew's mess and just drank tea and talked. . . it was really nice."

Thomas was grinning, too. "He's a good man, Ellen. . . sometimes he just takes time to bounce back from ill turns."

"Hey, I'd be pissed too, if that happened to me. Maybe I wouldn't hang on to it as long, but. . . and you know, he still can be a prick sometimes, but. . ." I sat back, reaching for a pillow and tucking it between my side and the arm of the sofa, knowing how pathetic I sounded. "But yeah, I think he is a good man."

"I'd be careful, if I were you." Thomas said, mischievous grin on his lips. He stood up, moving to his desk full of blueprints. "He's not courted since Ada."

It surprised me so much that I laughed—the fact that he thought I was falling for Murdoch, and that Murdoch hadn't had a date since then. "_Thomas_!" I grabbed the pillow and threw it at him; he laughed, too, and caught it. "Do you think I'm interested?"

He shrugged, eyes full of mirth. "Never know. You will be his charge for some time."

"Well, you're wrong." I caught the pillow when he threw it back. "I might be fickle sometimes, but not with love. And besides, even if he _is_ nice now, he was outrageous when we first met."

"It was merely a sug_gest_ion." he said, spreading his arms on the emphasis, and grinned. "And I wanted to see how you'd react."

I rolled my eyes. "Dolt."

He chuckled, and glanced at the clock. "Don't you have a watch to prepare for?"

I looked too, and realized that it was a minute to ten. "Ah, damn it." I stood, headed for the door. "Thanks, Thomas."

His gaze was warm. "Of course. Good night, Ellen."

"Night!" I closed the door behind me, made sure no one else was in the hallway, and hurried up to the deck. Down a hallway, a left down another, up a flight of the grand staircase, then almost a full sprint down the upper deck until at _last_—

Moody glanced over from his position, and I glanced wildly about for Murdoch, hoping that he wasn't there. I didn't see him, but nor did I see any senior officer. Hitchens was there at the helm as usual. Just—no officers. I frowned, panting, and looked over toward Moody. "Where's—"

"Good of you to join us, Miss Wallace." Murdoch stepped from the wheelhouse, and at first I thought he was being sarcastic again—but when I looked up, he was smiling wonderfully, tugging on his gloves.

"I'm sorry I'm late," I said, linking my hands behind my back, and threw in a "sir. T—Mr. Andrews wanted a word with me."

"Well then, he'll be persecuted for it." Murdoch teased, moving to stand beside me. He looked out over the waters, and we were silent for several moments. I opened my ears, listening to the waves break against the ship, the air that we cut through whizzing by. I could only see a portion of the sky through the windows ahead and to the sides of the bridge, but it was enough to tell that the sky was scattered with stars, a blue-black that matched the waves. I tried to steady my breathing from that run, and to calm down a bit.

"Miss Wallace." Murdoch voice was quiet; it almost seemed as though he, too, were reflecting in the beauty of the night at sea. "I've a favor to ask of you."

For a moment I wished not to move, then remembered that this was, after all, my job. "Certainly."

"Will you run down to the engine department with this. . ." he pulled a folded and stamped sheet of paper from his pocket. ". . . and tell them you're not allowed to return without a reply."

He passed me the paper; I took it, smiled, and touched the edge of my cap with my fingers. "Sir."

"Thank you." he smiled, saluted back, and I left the deck.

* * *

I stopped in the hallway and pulled a pencil from my pocket, then went to the wall, and laid Murdoch's note against it. Quickly, I scribbled the reply from the engine department on the back of the paper so that I wouldn't forget it. I then folded it up and proceeded up Scotland Road, the widest and longest corridor on the ship.

Down here, the engines were a bit louder—but I also picked up another noise, this one of a large crowd. As I neared the stairs, the laughter and buzz of talk and music grew louder. I could smell cigarette smoke. _Must be the third-class commons_, I thought—and suddenly wondered if any of my shipyard friends might be there.

I hesitated before the stairs to the upper decks, and looked around for a clock. One near the ceiling farther down the Road showed that it was only ten thirty. Yes, I could take five minutes, and I could tell Murdoch I got lost, or couldn't find the chief-on-duty.

When I reached it, the common room was alive with noise—shouting and talk, laughter and very Irish music. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and the smell of good, crisp beer. For a moment I just stood at the landing of the stairs into the room and stared. There was a central raised stage; some people were dancing on it, and many couples danced around it. Tables lined the room, full of cardplayers and drinkers and peanuts and beer.

Someone shouted, "_Hoi!_"; I turned to look and was surprised to find the shout directed at me—and even more surprised to see that one Fred O'Malley was the source of it.

"_Fred_!" I cried as he fought the crowd to get to me and at last stretched out a burly arm to shake my hand. "Fred, I was hoping I'd run into one of you!"

"Evenin', Miss Ellen." he said, grinning widely, clapping me on the shoulder. "Lookit you—you're all trussed up and official-lookin'—hoi, Bill, geddover here! S'Ellen Wallace!"

"Bill's here too?" I looked around in time to find another burly arm; I shook my old friend's hand. "Hey, nice to see you!"

Bll grinned. "Any of your mates with you, Ellen?"

"No, they're all on deck—I had to come down to run an errand—"

"Well, stay, have a drink!" Fred snatched one off of a passing tray and held it up. "We've got some catching up to do—the rest of the boys are here, and their lovely lasses—"

"I can't," I said sadly, "I've got to get back up—they'll be missing me. I just wanted to stop down and see if I recognized anybody."

"And you have!" Bill said, taking the drink out of Fred's hand and swallowing a large gulp of it. "Stay for a bit!"

Fred said, "You sh'come back tomorrow night when you have more time—the fun starts 'round eight. Bring all your damn officials with you, too—bet they could use some time away from the hot pokers up their arses."

I laughed, and protested. "They're not _that_ bad—most of the time."

"Aye, well, we'll let you go." Bill clapped me on the shoulder again. "C'mon, Fred!" He buried his face in his glass and latched a big hand onto Fred's shoulder to pull him away.

"Bye, Ellen—come back tomorrow!" Fred called.

"I will!" I called back, and grinning, hurried back to my lookout.

* * *

The deck itself was quiet, but the sea on the other side of the rail and lifeboats rumbled by far below, black and choppy this evening. Or this morning, more like. Pitman had been dead tired; Murdoch let him off early. Now the two of us were perusing the decks for our rounds.

"Tell me something about yourself." Murdoch said, looking over, eyes twinkling. "Something that hardly anyone knows."

What could I say to _that_? I thought it an odd question, considering that we were only just getting to know one another. But if he insisted. . .

I folded my hands behind my back as we walked, and fought a grin. "Well. . . let's see. . ." I could tell him that heights didn't bother me, and neither did rats, but spiders could scare me out of my wits. I could tell him that sometimes I helped test-drive new Ford models that came to my father's dealership—tested them until they ran off their wheels. I could tell him that once I'd written sappy love poetry so that my brother could have something to read to the girl he was flirting with. But that reminded me. . .

I said, "I love getting flowers." And I immediately felt ridiculous. _Should have told him about the damn Model T's!_

He cocked his head, curious. "Flowers?"

I looked down at my shoes, blushing. "Yes. I remember when Thomas and Helen were—well, courting—he'd always send her roses and wildflowers and the like, and she'd be thrilled. I never. . ." I shook my head, and changed the subject. "Well—well tell me something about yourself, then." I grinned. "Don't make me feel like an ass by myself."

"All right." he pushed his hands into his pockets, let out a long, clouding breath, thinking. "When I was a little boy, my father used to take me hunting, out in the Glasgow backwoods." At this point I grinned, hearing his very Scottish "out"—and he wrinkled his nose, smiling. "Ellen, that's the second time I've caught you doing that while I'm speaking. What's funny?"

"I'm sorry—your accent. I'm used to Irish ones, and there's something about the Scottish burr I've always been fond of."

He rolled his eyes, amused. "You know, it's you that has the accent to me, Ellen."

_You do _not_ enjoy hearing him say your name_. "True. Forgive me—what about your father?"

"He tried to take me hunting." I tried to imagine Murdoch hoisting a rifle, and nearly giggled. He said, "I hated it—I wouldn't shoot a doe—" (nearly laughed there, too, but managed to keep a straight face) "—and I was whipped for it later." He chuckled. "My father confined me to my room, and I started reading—that's where I read up about the sea."

I grinned. "You got your origins in seamanship through a whipping."

"Near burned my bum off," he said, grinning back. "And now here I am."

"Here you are." I agreed, and sighed, staring up at the stars. "Must be wonderful."

I felt more than saw him look at me, and then away. He said, softly, "Yes."

I shook myself mentally. _You're imagining things_.

He said, "Don't you have Scottish ancestry?"

I glanced over. "What?"

"Well, you got me thinking after you brought up the accent. 'Wallace' is about as Scottish as they come, isn't it? Or was that your—your husband's name?"

I shook my head. "No, it's mine." I smiled though—not only was Murdoch a Scot, but he knew his history. "But yes, I'm fairly Scottish—and Irish, too. I've got the Andrews bloodline in me, as well as Wallace. Unfortunately I don't carry either accent."

"You speak like an American," Murdoch said, and I glanced over in shock—for he'd just imitated my own "accent". He glanced over, grinning, and still carried the style: "What, I'm not that bad, am I?"

I laughed, and clapped a hand over my mouth to restrain myself. "No—you're not—it's just funny to hear it!"

He chuckled, and his voice returned to normal. "I'm sure you can imitate me, as well."

"Aye, that I can." I said, quite the Scot. "Actually, I like this. The words roll around a bit nicer."

He was laughing, too. "Oh, sod off—I don't sound _that_ native!"

"Nay, I cann'a think of anyone that sounds that bad. I'll stop." I grinned at him, and to my delight, he grinned back.

When we got back to our quarters, he said in an American tongue, "Good night, Miss Ellen."

I shot back Scottish-ly, "G'night to you, Mr. Murdoch." With two final smiles at each other, we retired.

I closed the door softly behind me. "Ellen, you fool." I muttered to myself, loosening my tie and throwing it over the back of my desk chair. I took off my jacket, which joined the tie on the chair, and then I kicked off my shoes and fell into bed, trusting that Murdoch would wake me up as he always did.

* * *

Next morning I awoke when there were sharp knocks at my door. I called thickly, "I'm still asleep. Go bother somebody who's awake." With one arm I reached up to yank the curtains closed further; the shafts of light sweeping into my room disappeared.

"Sorry to tell you, it's been tried on me before." Murdoch's voice from the other side of the door. "I know you're in there, and I know you're awake."

I muttered several curses into the pillow before dragging myself vertical and toward the door, half the sheets and blanket still wrapped around me. So much for wanting him to wake me up. I pulled the door open, feeling tired and heavy. "Yeah. _Now_ I'm awake."

Murdoch smiled, looking wide-awake and cheerful, fully dressed. "Only wanted to let you know that breakfast is ready in the crew's mess."

I ran the heel of my hand over my right eye. "Time is it."

"Quarter to nine."

I squinted at him. "You woke me up when I could have slept in for another hour?"

He rolled his eyes, still smiling good-naturedly. "Wouldn't want to have you still half asleep on watch."

I grimaced. "You're too kind." I closed the door, leaned against it.

"Will you be coming for breakfast, then?" he asked, voice muffled through an inch of painted, paneled wood.

Unable to think of a witty reply, I said lamely, ". . . yeah. I'll be in shortly." His footsteps faded quietly down the hall, and I turned to the room. Slowly I inched back toward the bed, threw open the curtains, squinted and cursed at the rush of light, and fell back onto the mattress again. "Day three." I mused aloud, but quietly. By degrees I was able to force myself upright, and to dress—and then the dilemma of tying my tie.

I went to breakfast with the tie in my pocket, and when I got there, found Wilde and

Murdoch chatting amicably around their hotcakes. "Morning." I dropped down beside Murdoch; both men greeted me with warm smiles, and Wilde looked around. "Don't see a steward." he said, and pushed his seat back to stand up. "I'll go find one to bring you a plate, Miss Wallace."

"Oh—thanks!" I said, surprised a bit by his kindness as he headed for the kitchen. But of course, that left me alone with Murdoch.

I remembered the tie in my pocket. _Now or never. Now or never. Now or_ "Hey, uh. . ." I fished it out. It was a lot longer than I remembered it. "Could you give me a hand with this again?"

"I _suppose_ so," he said, half smile on his lips. I arranged the tie under my collar quickly, then offered the tails to him. He took them, hands bare again.

_Don't watch his hands. Don't watch his hands. Don't—oh, Jesus, don't blush. Iceiceiceice you are like ice and cold water and snowiceiceice shit_. . .

He slid the knot up to the base of my throat, gently, and let it go. "There we are."

I coughed and turned back to the table. "Thanks."

"Too tight?" his eyes were concerned. "I'm sorry—"

"No, no—of course not. I just—I swallowed funny."

"I do believe I deserve fanfare." Wilde emerged from the kitchen, grinning triumphantly over a steaming breakfast plate, and he set it before me with a flourish. "Miss Wallace, your breakfast."

I grinned back. "Thanks, Mr. Wilde."

"My pleasure." he seated himself again, picked up his fork, and looked at the two of us. "Gone for a run, Will?"

"What?" Murdoch said; when I glanced over at him, I realized that a blush was fading from his own cheeks. "Not sure I understand you."

Wilde glanced at me, his expression reading quite clearly, "_Yeah, right._" He said, "Never mind." and turned back to his breakfast.

I dusted salt over the scrambled eggs and began to poke at them with my fork. "Hey, uh." I was thinking of last night. "Mr. Murdoch, are you going to be needing me right before our watch tonight?"

"I shouldn't think so." he said, then sipped his coffee. "Why do you ask?"

* * *

Friday went by like caramelized molasses. I didn't see much of Murdoch; on our watch he had Mr. Lowe and I check down in the fuel department, where I guess they'd been having problems with all the heat. By the time we got back up, not only were Lowe and I sweating and tired, but our watch had ended and Murdoch was off somewhere in another part of the ship. We turned our report in to Mr. Wilde.

Complaining and tired and miserable, we two junior officers went to our cabins to change and to meet in the mess for a late lunch. Even lunch was tiring. Lowe and I didn't speak much, just picked at our meal—and then I went back to my room to get some sleep before the evening came.

The trumpet call for the first-class dinner came at seven and woke me—at which point I remembered my promise to Fred that I'd go down to the commons to stay for a bit. I picked a plain skirt and matching jacket from my belongings, and a white shirt; I could always throw on my uniform right before the watch. I probably wouldn't be staying that long anyway; Murdoch would get worried that I'd be late.

Wouldn't he?


	11. Ten: Wallace

**An author's note to you, my dearest friends:** You and I have come a long way since the last time I posted an update to this story.

I need to thank you—you've all been brilliant with your reviews, and your favorite-adds and your support even when I was being silly and not writing. Life happened. I've grown up, and I'm sure you have, too. Now I wield proper grammar like knights wielded swords. I cringe at the quality of writing I used to think was brilliant (see MAwtMS). But I never got this story out of my system. It was always hovering at the back of my mind—thanks, in no small part, to your reviews.

Then one day, a couple months ago, I started writing and couldn't stop—despite the utter absurdity of the plot basis. In days I had an outline. In two months it was done. So yes: **it's done.** Well, I've still a page to go of the epilogue, but today was my deadline. I wanted to make sure I finished before I started posting, to avoid letting you down after you've stuck with me for so long. I'll post once a week until we've reached the end.

I hope you'll forgive me. And I hope you enjoy the rest of the ride. Thank you, friends. Onward!

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Chapter Ten: Wallace  
April 12, 1912  
21:18

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"Damn it!" I cried over the noise, slapping my cards down again. "Fold. Fold, fold, fold. For the fourth time. I fold."

The guys were laughing and the room was loud with music and hazy with smoke, the tang of ale in the air, sticking in my clothes along with the smoke. I'd been playing poker with them for at least an hour now, and kept getting dealt awful hands. "Y'don't know how to bluff, lass!" Fred explained.

"Yeah, well." I started to reach for a glass of ale and then remembered, sharply pulling my hand back—no drinking. Watch was soon. If I showed up tipsy it would be the end of my career and no questions. The smoke and alcohol smell would probably be enough to earn me a scolding as it was. "I'm out of practice."

"You were never _in_ practice," Frank joked, while the rest of them laughed.

"How long until your watch, Wallace?" called Bill across the table and over the noise.

I glanced at the clock over the doorway, and swore. "Starts at ten. I should really get up there now. I still have to change and report in."

"Go on, then," said Fred as I stood. "But come back another night."

I shrugged my jacket on, grinning at their beaming faces. "I'll certainly try. If Murdoch decides to give me a bit of ruddy time."

"_That_ Murdoch?" said the other Bill, looking past me, and I turned—nearly ramming a surprised first officer with my elbow.

I felt heat rise in my cheeks, stunned. "Sir. I—"

"Hello, Miss Wallace. Hello, you lot." He grinned at my friends, most of who waved back—the others were busy snorting at my ill-timed words. Murdoch turned to me. "I had to send a note to the engine room, and heard you were here. Thought I'd stop by before watch."

"Oh." I didn't know what to say—he was still smiling, but I couldn't tell if it would dissolve into a scolding the instant we were outside. He hadn't quite deserved the verbal pummeling he'd obviously overhead. "Well, I, er—I was just on my way back up—"

"I can see that." He glanced back at my still-amused companions. "What sort of poker are you all playing, then? Lowball?"

"Aye, sir." Fred shot me a half-wink. "And even then our Ellen can't win."

"Must not know how to bluff," he said, eyes shining as he received another round of laughter from the guys.

I managed to smile a bit. "Right. Well, we'd—better get above decks, hadn't we?"

They made me promise to come back tomorrow or the night after, and then I followed Murdoch out of the music and smoke. In the corridor, I gulped, staring ahead as we walked side by side. "Sir, I apologize. I was—out of line."

"Your friends seem like an interesting lot." The grin was still in his voice. "How do you know them?"

I glanced over. He was clearly amused, and didn't look like he'd be scolding any time soon. I said cautiously, "I spent a lot of time in the shipyards, because of Thomas, so we just became friends. I didn't know they'd be on board. I'm sorry, sir, I really intended to be back in time—"

"Hush, will you?" he clapped me on the shoulder, grip tight, and I blinked, surprised—I'd seem him to the same to Wilde and Lights. We started up the stairs that would take us topside. "I don't think I've ever seen you that relaxed. Obviously you were on your way up, so you've nothing for which to apologize. And I would assume you knew better than to start imbibing."

"Certainly, Mr. Murdoch," I said quietly.

"Well then, there you are." At blast of cold air from the deck swept into my jacket as we emerged. "Cold one this evening."

I was trying not to stare at him. His friendliness was off-putting, to say the least. "Indeed. I'm going to go change, then I'll meet you on the bridge."

When I emerged in the wheelhouse twenty minutes later, feeling oddly comfortable in my uniform, I looked around. Murdoch and Mr. Pitman were chatting by the railing while Quartermaster Rowe manned the helm.

"Evening, Miss Wallace," said Mr. Lowe, smiling as he came into the wheelhouse from the left. He was pink-nosed from the cold—probably started his shift with rounds. "I don't suppose you've seen the binoculars?"

"I haven't. They've gone missing?" I said, as Murdoch and Pitman came back into the wheelhouse. Lowe and I saluted.

"Binoculars?" Murdoch asked us. "Any luck?"

"No, sir," Lowe said, "I was just asking Miss Wallace if she'd seen them. We'll need a set before long, with these waters."

"Aye." Pitman took his cap off, scrubbed a gloved hand over his short auburn hair, and joked, "Could always start asking the passengers."

"Well, let's not resort to that yet." Murdoch said, and looked around at all of us. "Right, then. Orders."

The evening started normally enough—I ran an errand for Captain Smith, went with Murdoch while he did a mid-voyage check of lifeboat davits on the starboard side (port side was Lightoller's duty—he'd done it on his shift), and helped wireless operator Harold Bride while he went over the day's telegrams, filing them into different categories.

At around midnight, finished with my duties for the moment, I passed Pitman on the bridge and came into the wheelhouse. I was surprised to find not Hitchens or Rowe at the helm, but Murdoch. I didn't realize I was staring until he glanced back, an eyebrow lifted. "A report, Miss Wallace?" he said.

I startled but stepped forward, linking my hands behind my back. I hadn't seen him actually steer the ship before, and for some reason it was making me smile—he just looked so natural, standing there, navy uniform, cap on his head. I didn't know why I was surprised; obviously he could steer the ship, he was a bloody senior officer. He'd probably been a quartermaster himself, years ago. "Mr. Bride has everything filed away for the night. Nothing new—just a few iceberg warnings from around the North Atlantic. I have the coordinates, here."

He shook his head, hands fixed on the helm. "And we're holding steady at twenty-two knots."

I detected sarcasm. "Sir?"

He jerked his head to nod me forward; I drew closer. "We shouldn't be going so fast," he explained, voice low. "We're having trouble in the engine room as it is, and with all the berg warnings, it's. . ." he glanced over at me and seemed to remember that he was speaking with a junior officer.

I straightened, and tried to salvage it. "What _has _been happening in the engine room? I've just delivered messages; I haven't actually read them." They'd been sealed, and I didn't dare open them.

He looked ahead once more. "Just the regular maiden voyage mishaps. It's sort of expected, when they're still testing the limits of the furnaces."

He wasn't going to explain, because he didn't think I knew the language. I didn't have time to assure him I might surprise him, because just then Captain Smith stepped from the deck into the wheelhouse.

"Sir," Murdoch and I said at the same time, both of us saluting properly.

He saluted back. "At ease. I just wanted to remind the pair of you that you're expected at the service early Sunday morning, at oh-eight hundred. And Mr. Murdoch, you and Mr. Wilde have readings—I believe the assigned material was delivered to your cabins today, was it not?"

"Yes, sir," Murdoch said. I was watching with bemused interest. Murdoch and Wilde, reading together at the service. It seemed exactly the sort of thing Murdoch would refuse if he was allowed, and the kind of thing Wilde would pounce on with all sorts of enthusiasm.

"Very good," Smith said. He began walking towards his own quarters. "There's assigned seating for you up front. Miss Wallace, you'll be situated among the junior officers. Questions?"

"No, sir," Murdoch said.

"Thank you, sir," I added.

"Good night, then. Steady as she goes." His door clicked shut behind him.

"Brusque sort of fellow, isn't he?" I said, then felt my cheeks burn as Murdoch glanced over, one eyebrow raised, his sincere but surprised half-smile reminding me yet again of the bounds I was stepping over. His eyes shone more blue than gray at the moment, I noticed, before he turned to the sea once more. "Er—sorry, I didn't mean. . ."

"I know you didn't. And yes, he is. But it's probably not a conversation we should have."

"Agreed." I let out a breath I'd been holding. "Well then, how may I be of assistance?"

Still looking forward, he said, "D'you want to drive?"

My chin straying sideways, I stared. "Er—what?"

He looked back at me again, smile barely there, and nodded towards the helm. "Would you like to steer for a moment?"

I took a step backward without meaning to. It was a question, not an order—not a "here, steer for five minutes while I run and have a word with the captain," not intended to teach me anything, because when would I ever be a quartermaster?

The look on his face, his relaxed body language, the complete breach of etiquette—he was asking me whether I wanted to steer the largest, grandest monstrosity man had ever created just _because_, smiling like he trusted me, like he knew I wouldn't screw it up, like he knew I would adore it far more than I was prepared to admit.

"No, sir," I said quietly.

"Are you certain? There's really nothing to it. It takes a good amount of effort to turn it one way or another; it isn't as though you'd run us off course."

My face felt hot again. He had that look once more, bemused but somehow so—fond, I suppose—that it was as though he'd forgotten the past few days of his sheer assholery. "No thank you, Mr. Murdoch. With my luck, something would go wrong for certain."

"So bloody cold," Pitman gritted, coming into the wheelhouse, rubbing his hands together. "I'm sending someone out for a cup of tea the first chance I get."

Murdoch started to reply; I muttered, "Excuse me," and ducked into the hallway of the officers' quarters, shutting the door behind me and leaning against it for just a moment, closing my eyes, pulling my hat off. My face was still red—it felt hot to the touch, although that just might have been my cold hands. What was _wrong_ with me? _I've gone around the twist_, I thought, disgusted and amused at the same time. That look on Murdoch's face flashed though my mind again, when he'd asked me to steer, and I couldn't stop a smile. It was great to be on his good side.

I opened my eyes, heaving a sigh, about to turn back, when suddenly I realized that Charles Lightoller was standing in the threshold of his open doorway, looking expectantly at me.

"Hell," I muttered.

"Feeling all right?" he asked mildly, smiling like he knew something. He was wearing a ridiculous maroon dressing gown.

"Fine," I said, straightening. "Just—needed to get out of the cold for a second."

"Of course." He turned back to his room. "Good night, Miss Wallace."

"Good night, Mr. Lightoller." I took a deep breath and swung back out to the wheelhouse again.

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Murdoch and I were walking along the starboard side, finishing off our rounds, chatting a bit as we roamed the decks, stars brilliant overhead. He was telling me a story Mr. Lowe told him earlier, something about a passenger knocking a goblet of wine onto the countess of Rothes' lap and the ensuing hilarity.

"Wish I could have seen that," I said as he finished. "I hope it was the Worstings."

He snorted conspiratorially. "I agree." We were silent for a moment, then he said, "Have you recovered from the other night? At dinner?"

I glanced over. He was doing that thing again—caring. "Certainly."

He sighed. "I do wish we hadn't gone. They were ghastly."

"I wish I'd had a proper dress; I would've worn it instead of a uniform. Thomas's cousin just along for the fun, and all of that."

"You could try again, with a proper dress, as you say. See if they recognize you."

I grinned. "If I had one appropriate for dinner, I just might."

"Surely you have something?"

I shook my head. The nicest dress I had with me was the one I'd worn on the first day, and it was currently caked with dried mud. And anyway, it was an afternoon dress. I did have another one with me, a pretty teal thing, but it was nowhere near the satiny swaths of iridescence the first-class ladies wore. "No, not that nice."

"But you're a proper woman," he said, somewhat incredulously.

I nearly laughed. "Think about that one."

Murdoch grinned, too. "Right. I mean, when you're not holding a job no woman has ever held in the history of maritime occupations, you're a proper woman."

Shrugging, I tucked my hands into my pocket. We reached the prow of the ship, and for a moment just stood there, staring out at the dark Atlantic past the low deck lights. "I've had to make my own way," I explained. "Stephen never had much to begin with, and I didn't want to take Thomas's help—he has a family of his own." Chancing a glance over, I saw Murdoch's eyes on mine, a combination of admiration and sympathy shining from them. I looked away, glad for the cold that made my cheeks red already.

"Well," he said, "I applaud you. It can't be easy. You've got spunk, Ms. Wallace."

"Thanks." We began walking back towards the ship. "Let's hope that comment makes it onto my first evaluation."

As we were beginning to hand things over to Mr. Wilde, he asked me to run orders and a report down to the engine room. I didn't mind; we still had 15 minutes of our shift left as it was, so I bade good night to Murdoch and began the familiar path down to the engine room.

Passing the third-class common room, which was just now beginning to quiet down, I thought back to my promise to return to my friends when I could. _Perhaps I'll pull that teal dress out of my trunk in the morning_, I thought, not a little giddily. _Let it air out in time for the evening_.

After all. Grandest ship in the world, close friends, and a party. That dress would have to do.


	12. Eleven: Murdoch

Author's Note: Thank you all so much for your lovely comments! It's so good to be back, and to hear from you. As far as this chapter goes, I ask you to bear in mind that I developed most of this plotline when I was still a young'un, and I do realize how unrealistic a lot (read: most) of it is. Also, did you know Margaret Brown was never actually addressed as "Molly"? I didn't either, until a few weeks ago. Facts! They're so fun. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy this chapter—it's now the (early) morning of the day before the sinking. And the plot! It's finally here! Sort of. We continue about an hour after the last chapter ends. . .

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Chapter Eleven: Murdoch

April 13, 1912

02:45

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There were several soft knocks at his door; he sat up, glanced to his alarm clock—it was a quarter to three in the morning; he'd barely gone to bed twenty minutes ago. The knocks came again, still almost embarrassedly quiet. "Coming." he rasped, and swung himself out of bed. He quickly threw on his navy blue dressing gown, tried to smooth his hair down, and opened the door.

Ellen was standing there, still in full uniform and visibly trembling, fiddling with the cuff of her sleeve—and facing the door to the boat deck, so that he could only see one side of her face. She didn't look at him, but focused on her cuffs. Murdoch glanced down at them—only to realize that they were spattered with blood.

"Miss Wallace?" he said, suddenly completely awake. "What—"

"I need some help." she said, voice unsteady, glancing over at him but not turning her head. "There was—there was a brawl downstairs." He gaped; she said quickly, "The stewards and I got it under control. Pulled the men apart, filled out the report. But they, uh. I was there, and I've. . ." she took in a shaky breath, and gritted her teeth, pressing the bloody cuff of the sleeve to her nose with a sniffle.

She was obviously hurt. "Did you get decked?" he asked, quietly.

She slowly turned her head, and his jaw fell open—a bruise spanned her left cheek bone, and the skin was swollen and purplish. The cuff and its current position against her face suggested a bloody nose. "Hurts like hell." she gritted. "But that's not the problem—I don't know how I can hide it tomorrow, because the captain will want to know, and he's going to question me and he'll know I was below decks and I was trying to break up a fight. . . I'm already on the line, here, and I just can't. . ." She broke off, meeting his eyes pleadingly.

Murdoch opened the door wider. "Here, come in." She stepped inside, and he left the door open a crack—regulations. They had to keep the door open if Ellen, as a junior officer and a woman, was in their quarters for any reason.

He snapped on the light, suddenly aware that he was about as disheveled as any person could be. "Sit down a minute." he pulled the chair from the desk out; she sank into it, still trembling.

"Thanks." she breathed, sniffling. "I'm—I'm not crying. Some guy got me in the nose and it's bleeding all to hell." She held up her sleeve. "That's what this is."

"And your hand," he said, noticing that a bruise was forming across her knuckles.

She looked down at it, cursed bitterly. "Hadn't noticed," she said, pale.

Murdoch was looking for a handkerchief. "Have you gone to the infirmary?"

She started to shake her head, then stopped and winced. "No. They'll tell the captain. I thought. . . thought maybe if I came here, I'd at least have time to think of what I'll say when he dismisses me."

"I'm sure he won't." Murdoch glanced back at her, thinking of something. "Have you gone to your cousin?"

She looked at the floor. "No."

Sparks went off in his chest. He instantly tried to suppress more of them by digging deeply in his jacket pocket, and finally surfaced with a handkerchief. _She came to me before her own cousin._ "Here. Use this on your nose."

She covered it and tilted her head back, closing her eyes. "Thanks. I think I'll just. . . I don't know."

Murdoch regarded her for a moment, then jammed his feet into moccasins. "Well, we've got to get you help; you can't sit there and bleed to death. We may as well go to Thomas—he's bound to have some sort of first aid supplies in his cabin, and if not, he can ring for a steward without suspicion. Do you have. . ." He paused, realizing suddenly exactly how little he knew about the private lives of women. ". . . er. . . something to cover the bruise? Some sort of face. . . er. . .?"

"No." Her lower lip began trembling; she bit it.

He looked away. "Perhaps Thomas knows someone who does. C'mon."

A minute later they were sneaking out of the officers' quarters, she still holding the handkerchief, which was dotted with blood, to her nose. Murdoch, now bundled into his greatcoat, was torn between being impressed at her ability to take a hit and not complain about it, and being furious with himself for helping her hide the fact. The captain should know, but stewards knew how to hush. Her name probably wasn't even in the report—and anyway, if they could hide it, did the captain really need to know? She'd helped break up the fight, after all, not started it. On that note. . .

"Er—you didn't _start _the fight, did you?" he ventured cautiously as they slipped along the deck, then couldn't stop a smile at the intense but good-natured glare she offered. "Sorry. Explain?"

Voice nasal from holding the handkerchief to it, she told him that coming back from the engine room, she heard shouts and a brawl, and the stewards were outnumbered. So she naturally dove in and tried to help the stewards pull people apart. Unfortunately fists were still flying, and she got caught with one.

"It was over a girl, I think," she finished as they neared Thomas's suite. "There was one standing off to the side and watching. And the men were drunk. Didn't see any of my mates around, thank goodness."

It again occurred to him that she was being irrationally calm. "You've been in fights before," Murdoch asked, "haven't you?"

"Shipyards," she said simply, then glanced over. "What about you, I don't suppose you've ever. . ."

"Shipping business," he replied, resisting the urge to clap her on the back, like he had earlier in the evening. She was not one of his friends. She was a junior officer. _And that's it_, he told himself forcefully. "You sort of get used to it, in the beginning."

Thomas was at the door just moments after the last knock. He wore no jacket, top button of his shirt undone—he'd been awake, from the looks of it, and working, from the looks of the blueprints spread everywhere. The instant he saw Ellen, he drew them inside, shutting the door quickly.

"What _happened_?" he asked, already heading for the washroom, presumably for a hand towel and water. Ellen sank down gratefully on a sofa, unbuttoning her officer's jacket.

"Fight," she said, and Murdoch could feel the shame in it. "Downstairs. I was trying to help a few stewards break it up."

Thomas came over, handing her a damp towel to clean her face. He sank down into a chair across from her. "That's one hell of a bruise," he said. "Captain won't be pleased."

"We were hoping you could help," she explained, surfacing from behind the towel. She looked much better without the blood on her face, but Murdoch's heart twisted at the bruise, which was now sporting yellowish undertones. "I'd just wear something to cover it, but I don't. . ." she studied the floor. "I don't know any women onboard. If I did, maybe one of them could let me borrow. . . I mean. . ."

"Aye." Thomas stood. "I know just the woman to ask. And you can bet she's still up, too. I can go and find her. Will you two wait here?"

"Of course," Murdoch agreed.

"Thank you," Ellen said wearily. Thomas hurried out the door.

Ellen swung her feet up onto the sofa and stretched out, pressing the coolness of the damp towel against the bruise. "Better," she sighed, closing her eyes.

Murdoch, who had been standing rather mutely near the blueprint-swathed desk, came around to sit in a padded chair across from the sofa. There was something surreal about the whole situation—dead of night, Ellen with a bloody nose, the fact that he was finding himself caring enough to not tell Captain Smith. He was about to say something about it when he realized she was asleep.

"Ellen?" he said softly, just to see if she really was out. She didn't move, just lay there, looking almost peaceful except for the bruise on her cheek.

Murdoch sighed, leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, watching her sleep. "You're the most confusing woman I've ever met, you know," he muttered. "And you've got me up after three in the morning, and I'm not even cross about it. _Why?_"

She didn't stir.

He sat back, running a hand over his face. "Have it your way, then. Don't explain."

The door opened and Murdoch stood; Ellen stirred, looked over, then followed him up. Thomas was ushering a stout, sparkling woman through the door. Beads rustled from every seam of her dress, catching the yellow light of the cabin and reflecting it back, and a large blue feather bobbed on her head as she walked. Reddish brown hair was swept back fashionably, and a broad grin was spread above several chins. "Right then," the woman said gamely, dropping her shawl without invite onto a chair near the door. "Where's the kid?"

"Mr. Murdoch," said Thomas, smiling, because as Murdoch saw, it was hard not to around this obvious firecracker. "Ellen, this is Margaret Brown."

"Pleasure," she said, already coming over to a surprised Ellen to study the bruise. "Didn't I see you at boarding a few days ago?

"Yes," Ellen smiled, or tried. "Told an old man he was an idiot."

"He deserved it." She clicked open her tiny, beaded bag and rooted around inside it. Murdoch doubted he could have fit one handkerchief inside it, let alone the arsenal of goods this woman seemed to have within. "That's what I thought—our skin's just about the same color." She produced a tiny, flat jar of a concealing makeup. "C'mon, honey. I'll fix you up."

"Mr. Murdoch," Thomas said from near the door. "A word?"

Nodding, Murdoch followed him out to the empty, bright hall, where Thomas shut the door and then his pleasantly calm manner dissolved. He asked coolly, "Would you mind explaining how my cousin's managed to get a bruise that size, Will?"

Murdoch was surprised; he couldn't remember ever hearing Thomas address him in that tone. Quickly he explained what happened—Ellen delivering a message, breaking up a fight with the stewards, accidentally getting hit. Coming to find him, thinking he might help.

"But the bruise on her hand." Thomas strode a few paces away in frustration. "It means she fought back. I don't blame her—it's anyone's instinct, and she can hold her own in a fight. But if that person comes forward and says the first officer's assistant clocked him and they both have the bruise to prove it, they've got enough evidence to throw her out. Which I reckon she knows."

"She does." It was hard to sound serious in a nightshirt and greatcoat, but Murdoch thought he was doing a fairly good job. "But she said the men were drunk out of his wits—unlikely they'll remember at all."

"But then there's the issue of the fight report."

"She said the stewards didn't include her. And I wasn't. . ." Murdoch trailed off, and lifted his chin to salvage a bit of dignity. ". . . wasn't planning on raising the alarm about it."

Thomas walked back, eyes narrowed. "Weren't you?"

Murdoch studied Thomas for a moment. They were both the same age, had known each other a few years. Ellen had probably told Thomas about Murdoch's less than kind reception. Which meant what he, Murdoch, was about to say would sound utterly feeble, no matter how much he squared his shoulders. No matter how much he meant it. "No. I'd rather keep her around."

Thomas's eyebrow went up. "Would you?"

"_Yes_. She's a good worker, Thomas. Haven't heard a single complaint out of her, no matter the task. Makes my job one hell of a lot easier."

Thomas studied him. Murdoch wondered exactly what Ellen had said about him.

"Thank you," Thomas said finally. "I worry about her. And this hasn't exactly helped."

"I can imagine."

"Look, I know. . ." Thomas sighed, ran a hand through his graying hair. ". . . that it's not conventional, her job. And she says you're a well enough mentor. Just know that she's about as convinced of the legitimacy of her position as the rest of you—which is to say, not much."

Murdoch nodded. He'd sensed that for certain, when the two of them spoke. "I'll keep it in mind."

"Thanks. And thanks for bringing her here."

"Of course," said Murdoch, and they ducked back inside.

Ellen and Margaret Brown were standing by the mirror over the faux fireplace, and as Ellen turned toward them, Murdoch blinked—he couldn't see the bruise. Ellen smiled at his surprise, reaching up to gingerly touch her cheek. Margaret's makeup had worked, then. The right side of her face did look slightly swollen, but it would probably be reduced by morning.

"Good as new, right?" Margaret planted her fists on her hips, regarding Ellen happily.

"Right," Thomas agreed. "I'm impressed."

"Here." Margaret gave the little makeup pot to Ellen. "You keep it."

"I couldn't—" started Ellen.

"Sure you could." Margaret grinned. "I insist. You need it more than I do."

Ellen tucked it in her coat pocket, looking at Margaret with wide, grateful eyes. "Thank you."

"I'd better get back to my card game." Margaret picked up her small bag, and threw her shawl around her shoulders again. "Thomas, let me know if you need anything else, will you?"

Thomas saw her out the door while Murdoch looked over his charge. She did seem to be feeling a bit better—less shaken, more optimistic—and tired. "We can get ice in the officer's mess, on the way back," he suggested.

"Good idea," she agreed, and started to yawn, then winced. "We should probably get going, then. It's late."

"Or early," Thomas said, coming to stand next to his cousin. "Feeling better?"

"Much." She tried to smile, and Murdoch noticed it quivering slightly.

"Let's get you back," he said, wondering at the protectiveness he was feeling. He and Ellen bade good night to Thomas, and they began the hike back to their quarters.

They were on deck when she spoke again. "I don't know how to begin to thank you," she started, and he waved his hand dismissively.

"Don't mention it," he said, and added wryly, "If reporting you comes with the risk of losing you as an assistant, I wouldn't dream of it."

Her eyes were bright in the deck light, searching his to gauge his sincerity. "Truly?"

Murdoch gnawed the inside of his cheek. He supposed it wouldn't hurt to tell her what he told Thomas. Some of it, anyway. "You're a good worker," he admitted. "Wouldn't want to lose that." Inwardly he cringed, wishing he could have made that sound slightly less professional. But what for?

"Thanks," was all she said.

They filched a chunk of ice and a tea towel from the officers' mess, the combination of which Ellen was already holding against her cheek as they got back to their quarters. They both stopped outside her door, blinking in the bright light overhead. "I'm sorry I woke you," she said quietly, turning to fit her key into her lock.

"It's fine." He lifted his hand to grasp her shoulder, then changed his mind, dropping it. She didn't notice. He swallowed. "I can't cover for you every time, but let me know if you need anything."

"I really appreciate it," she murmured, turning to look back up at him. He felt his heart skip under her grateful gaze. "Good night, Mr. Murdoch."

"Good night, Miss Wallace." By the time she closed her door, he was digging his own key from his pocket. He lay awake in bed for some time, trying to interpret the warm, light feeling in his chest.

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They didn't see each other much the next morning, though Murdoch noticed the swelling in her face had gone down considerably, and that with Ms. Brown's makeup, he didn't even notice the bruise. At breakfast she kept the cuff of her sleeve pulled down, and on deck she kept her gloves on.

He tried to avoid giving her much to do. He kept thinking of her standing in his doorway, trembling, with blood on her sleeve and her eyes so trusting in his ability to help. He also kept trying to avoid thinking of the fact that she came to _him_ first, because after all, he was her superior; why wouldn't she?

At any rate, Ellen had dealt with it calmly enough, but her nerves had obviously been a bit frazzled, and he wanted to give her the chance to take it easy.

Until she came to stand beside him on the bridge and said casually, "Mr. Murdoch, I don't know if there's a light load today, or if you're just being nice, but don't let me off the hook, all right? Give me a real job or I'm going to go mad."

"You've seen through me," he admitted, hoping he was less transparent in other respects. And pleased that she wasn't willing to be coddled. "I could use a report of this morning's wireless communications."

"Thank you. Right away." She turned to go.

"And Miss Wallace?"

"Yes, sir?"

Murdoch hesitated. He didn't want to do this—but he didn't want to take the chance that someone might recognize her, or try to call her out on her actions last night. "I don't know whether you were planning on going belowdecks again this evening, to be with your friends, but it isn't a good idea."

A muscle in her cheek ticked, the cheer fading from her eyes. "Sir?"

"I'd prefer it if you kept away from the third class common room." He hated this. It felt like every ounce of friendship they'd built up—and whatever more that feeling in his chest seemed to argue in favor of—was coming crashing down. But he didn't have a choice. He didn't want to risk either of them. "At least until we get to New York, when the current passengers have disembarked. I'm concerned one of those involved in the fight might see you, and report you."

For a moment she was silent; Murdoch watched the inner struggle, guilt-ridden and trying to hide it. But he knew he was right. And she knew it, too—she had to. "Yes, sir," she said finally, and turned toward the wireless room.

"What was that about?" Lightoller asked, coming to stand next to Murdoch as they looked to the Atlantic. "She didn't seem so chipper."

Murdoch studied Lightoller for a moment, and supposed it wouldn't hurt to tell him. They'd been loyal to each other far longer than they'd been loyal to Captain Smith.

So Murdoch briefly explained what had happened the night before, the fight, the report without Ellen's name on it. The reasons why he forbade her from visiting third class. "I hate asking it of her," he said. "She was so enjoying her friends the other night. But it's just too much of a risk."

Lightoller smiled, adjusting his hat. "Will," he said sagely. "You're being a bit of a prat."

Murdoch bit back a groan. "I am _not_, Lights, you can't tell me that doesn't make sense."

Lightoller shook his head, and held up a few fingers upon which to count. Obnoxiously. "First, you're assuming she'll be down there in her officer's blues. Unlikely. Second, you said yourself the men involved in the fight were intoxicated beyond reason—therefore, they probably don't even remember her, _and it was two in the morning_, not eight at night. _Thirdly,_she's not stupid. If she sees one of them coming, she'll get out. And you said she's got her shipyard friends, right? You think they'll stand by and watch if someone tries to give her a beating?"

Murdoch hated it when Lights made sense. "But I don't. . ." want her to get hurt, he thought. Or get found out, and have to step down. "I don't just let any of _you_ go off and visit with your friends during off hours," he said lamely.

"Well, we work with our friends." Lightoller stared out over the water. "She's alone in this new job save for us, and fat lot of great company we are. You being a huge prat, and all."

Murdoch cracked a smile. "Shut up before I'm forced to admit you're right."

"Never." Lightoller nudged him in the arm. "She's responsible, Will. She'll be fine."

"Fine." Murdoch lifted his hands. He surrendered. "You're right. I'll tell her when I see her next."

"Yes, or I will," Lightoller threatened cheerfully.

The rest of the day passed slowly. He saw Ellen when she handed in the report later, and was honestly about to tell her he'd changed his mind, but Wilde needed an extra person to take rounds with another junior officer, so asked her to do so.

By the time the rest of the day passed, Murdoch was so distracted that he didn't remember until just after dinner, when he didn't see Ellen in the officer's mess. It was a bit after eight when he made his way to her closed cabin door to let her know he'd changed his mind.


	13. Twelve: Wallace

Author's Note: Thanks for the lovely words, everyone! Here I am again, this time with fluff. Also, I always sort of imagined Ellen as having custom-tailored dresses (not like she could afford it) that she could put on herself, without the help of anyone else. Hence what you see below. And I just assumed that Ellen and Murdoch would have rooms next to one another. Considering that she's the assistant and all. One final note: if you don't think suspenders are sexy, you clearly haven't watched the fifth season of Doctor Who. Onwards. Enjoy, everyone!

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Chapter Twelve: Wallace  
April 13, 1912  
20:09

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Rebellion was churning in my stomach with the rest of dinner as I buttoned myself into my dress.

I hadn't the faintest idea how I was going to escape the officer's quarters (or get back in) without being seen, but damn it, Murdoch was being a cad again and I wanted to see my friends. After last night, I deserved a bit of fun. Even if those ham-fisted asses from that fight were there, how would they even recognize me? Last night I'd been wearing my bulky overcoat, my officer's uniform. Part of the reason I could barely block their swings.

Tonight I'd be wearing a dress. A real one. A deep teal, plain but for the way it fit. Probably a bit fancy for the third-class common room, but for once on this journey I wanted to feel like a lady, not an officer. Maybe someone would even ask me to dance; certainly one of the guys would, if they knew I wanted to.

I thought briefly of Murdoch, retracing the steps of how I became pissed at him yet again. He'd been so wonderful last night. This morning. I'd had no right to expect anything when I turned up. I still couldn't quite say why I'd gone to him rather than Thomas—wanted to prove I trusted him, or knew where my loyalty lay.

But ever since then I couldn't help but wonder if his eyes hadlingered on mine a few times. If he was trying to convey something else, the way he'd been almost protective of me.

Obviously not, considering he didn't even trust me to spend time with my friends properly.

Grumbling to myself, I looked into the small vanity above the dresser, pressing a few leftover pins into my hair, trying to knot it elegantly, not practically. Failing.

Cursing, I took the pins down and was about to try again when there was a knock at the door.

"Miss Wallace," came Murdoch's voice. "Are you there?"

I froze. How could he possibly need me _now_? I looked around, stupidly trying to figure out if there was a way to hide my teal dress, the fact that I was planning on deliberately disobeying his orders. Suddenly the whole plan seemed the most immature thing I could've ever imagined.

I opened the door about three inches, hoping the contrast between my low-lit room and the bright hall would hide me. "Yes, sir?"

He was loosening his tie slightly. It wasn't sexy. Only it was. "Er, hello," he said. "I just wanted to talk about earlier."

I remembered that I was supposed to be angry with him. "Yes?"

"Well." He shifted. "I was wrong. I was concerned about you getting into trouble, belowdecks, but I know you're responsible. If you want to go, you should."

I couldn't stop a smile, opening the door further. "Really?"

He glanced downward, and I remembered that I was wearing the dress. "Seems you already figured I'd reach that conclusion."

"Oh." _Damn_. "I was just—uh—"

"Don't worry about it." he said, half smiling, beginning to turn away. "You look nice."

Thank God his back was turned by the time the gape made it to my face. Snapping my jaw shut, I found myself saying, "You could join me, if you want."

He didn't glance back, but said, "P'raps I will."

Right, then. I closed the door and leaned back against it, giddy for some reason.

Perhaps he would, indeed.

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I was trying to suppress giggles. This was _not _going well. "Ellen," Fred said, waggling his cards at me. "This is how you do it." He dropped them. It was a flush. The rest of the table roared its approval over the music.

"Fred." I chucked my cards at him one by one. "You're just going to have to accept that I will never, ever get any better at this. Ever."

"So y'can't play at cards," said one of our new friends, an Irish lad named Tommy Ryan. He stood and lifted his eyebrows happily. "But can y'dance?"

There it was. I grinned, standing, holding out my hand. "You're lucky this is the one dance I actually know."

"Ha!" he took my hand, and pulled me away as the rest of the group cat-called. It was a relief, after the polite silences on the bridge. "Or are _you _the lucky one?"

Tommy surprised me; he was agile and chipper as we wove around other couples, bouncing along merrily without a second thought as I tried to keep up. We twirled past his friend Fabrizo, who was trying very intently to speak to a lovely blond girl, and then past his friend Jack, who I'd met about a half hour ago. He was trying to coax a pretty redhead to dance.

"Oi!" I called to Tommy over the noise, suddenly thinking I recognized her. "Who's that, that Jack's with?"

"Name's Rose!" he called back. "She's first class—look at her dress!"

That was it. She'd sat with us at dinner the other night. She was the one who was having the wedding planned for her, with that sour-faced family. And she was dancing with Jack. I giggled again—good for her. The few minutes we'd been introduced, he already seemed like more fun than her fiancé. And she looked like she needed a bit of fun.

By the time the dance was over, I could feel myself beginning to sweat, and Tommy released me long enough for us to applaud the band.

"You're not s'bad!" he said in my ear as we elbowed our way back to the table.

"Have to be good at something!" I shot back, and realized there was someone else in my seat.

Oh.

"Hoi, Ellen!" Fred called as we drew closer, dealing cards. "Look who joined us!"

It was Murdoch, of course, who was grinning up at me. But without his officer's uniform. He was wearing just a plain shirt and suspenders, top buttons undone, sleeves rolled like the rest of the group, simple navy pants.

He looked good.

"Mr. Murdoch," I said, not sure what else to do. "Ehm—"

"_Shush!_" called Bill, picking up his cards. "We're starting."

"Aye," said Fred. "Pull up a chair, Ellen. Will's gonna show you how it's done."

"Calling you Will now, are they?" I muttered, yanking a chair beside him and dropping into it.

"I'm not _their _superior officer," he said happily, his eyes shining as they met mine. "Now come here, so you can see my cards."

I was already _there_, in the sense he spoke of. "Uh—" I started.

Tommy put a heel against the leg of my chair and pushed me closer to Murdoch. "Look," Murdoch said, not bothered in the least by the fact that my chair had just rammed his and that I was now struggling to be dignified while still leaning unbearably close to my superior officer. "Bad hand. Here's how we fix it."

As Tommy found a chair on the other side of the table, it occurred to me that it was entirely possible that Murdoch felt just as at home in this environment as I did. _But he's an officer_, the logical part of my mind argued. _He _likes _standing around on deck and calling people sir. _But then again. He'd told me about his love of the ocean. You don't feel that kind of respect for the sea if you're a shallow ponce who only loves the protocol.

"With me so far?" he asked.

"Hope so," I said, taking a deep breath. Under the smell of smoke and beer, I inhaled a faint wisp of aftershave and soap. It was _great_. Worse, it was Murdoch. I grabbed a half-finished cigarette out of the nearest ashtray and inhaled deeply, chanting to myself_, superior officer, superior officer. . ._

After five minutes of his grins and patient explanations, Murdoch was beaming down at his and Fred's cards. "A straight," Murdoch announced in the semi-quiet that followed a song's end. Someone somewhere broke a glass.

"Balls," Fred said happily. "You're pretty good for an officer, Will. You in for another round? Boys?"

Bill stepped away with a pretty blonde as a new song started, and Tommy pulled a petite brunette to the dance floor. I was just about to announce that I was game for another go at poker when Will turned toward me. We were close, from our chairs still being beside each other's, and his blue eyes were shining. "C'mon," he said. "Let's dance."

I nearly hacked on my own spit, but instead managed an unladylike gulp. "What?"

"Let's. Dance." he was standing.

"But I, uh—I don't know the steps to this one." That wasn't quite a lie.

He held out a hand, grinning. "I'll teach you."

"_You_ know it?"

"I'm not a complete prat," he said, more to himself, then glanced down at me. "Coming?"

Fred groaned. "Ellen. _Go_."

I stood, too quickly, and turned to face the hopeful Murdoch. Beyond the fact that I was trying to fight thoughts of how good he looked (and smelled), he was my superior officer. My boss. Sort of. This wasn't supposed to happen. I lowered my voice. "Mr. Murdoch. Please. I can't. . ."

He smiled, stepped closer so I could hear _his _lowered voice. It was disorienting. "Ellen, I'm sorry. You don't have to. I thought maybe I'd make up for being unreasonable earlier."

I closed my eyes. He wasn't flirting. He was just being a nice guy. Because that's what he was. And if he _was_ flirting. . . would it really be so bad? "Order me." I said, looking back up at him, unable to stop a smile.

"What?"

"Order me to dance with you. It's the only way."

He ran a hand through his dark hair, then straightened slightly, meeting my eyes squarely. "Miss Wallace," he said.

"Mr. Murdoch?"

"There's a first officer in want of a dance partner. See if you can fill the spot, would you?" He held up a hand between us, smiling gently.

I smiled too, heart hammering, and took it. "Certainly, sir."

His hand was warm, grip tight as we wove to the floor.

He could _dance_. What's more, he was teaching me even as he moved. The fingers of his left hand were tangled with mine on my right, his right arm half around my waist, holding me to him while we both tried to watch our feet. I could feel his muscles shifting under my left arm, felt the solid wall of his chest against my side. It was brilliant.

As the dance ended and we released each other, he grinned, slightly winded, as was I. "There now," he said over the applause. "Fun, right?"

"Right." The band began to play a slower tune—clearly with romantic intentions. I started heading back to the guys. "Come on, you can help me out this round."

I glanced back only for a second, but it was enough to see the instantaneous flash of disappointment in Murdoch's eyes. He'd been intent on asking me to dance that next one, too. Plowing on resolutely, I gritted my teeth. _Better this way_, I tried to tell myself. _Think of how awkward it would be. And later, on your watch! No. Better this way_.

I got Fred to deal me another round, and Murdoch came to sit beside me, one hand on the back of my chair as we all played. His other arm leaned on the table as he muttered suggestions and cracked jokes at his and my expense, which the guys found uproariously funny. I myself was having a hard time not giggling despite the fact that I hadn't had a single drop of ale.

"So," Fred said at last, eying Murdoch and me over this round's pile of loot—a fancy cigar, a penknife, two brass buttons, and a charming assortment of pocket lint. "Let's have it, then."

Murdoch and I looked at each other. He nodded once, grinning.

I dropped my cards. Four of a kind.

"_What!" _Fred cried, the rest of the table in an uproar, pats raining down on my back. "Impossible!"

Tommy pushed the pile of nonsense across the table to Murdoch and I. "Congrats, you lot."

"Thanks, Will," I said, reaching over to shake hands with him only to find that his eyebrow was a mile high. "What?"

"Nothing, Ellen."

Shit. I'd called him by his first name. "Oh—sir, I'm sorry—"

"Hush. We're not on duty," he said patiently, and looked around. "Speaking of. D'you have the time?"

I swung round to look at the clock on the wall—and cursed, jumping up. "We have to go!"

"What—" he looked, too, and saw that it was 9:47.

"Tommy!" I called, grabbing the cigar and buttons while Murdoch took the penknife. "Fred! Bill! We've got to go!"

Amid a chorus of good-nights and the music, Murdoch and I hurried out of the common room and raced up the steps, laughing. "Still gotta change," I said as we clambered up the stairs, skirt in my fists so that I could take the steps two at a time. D Deck, C Deck, B Deck. "The entire bridge is going to smell like beer and smoke."

"Least there's only a few of us out on watch," Murdoch said, holding the door to the boat deck for me.

As we sped down the freezing cold deck, I glanced over at him. He was still smiling when he met my eyes. "Thanks," I said.

"Whatever for?"

For not being an ass. For making me feel pretty. For having fun, like a real person. "I don't know," I admitted. "Just. Thanks."

We got into the crew's quarters without being seen, and I quickly stripped out of my dress, took my hair down and knotted it properly, then pulled on a clean uniform. On second thought, I tucked the cigar we'd won into my greatcoat pocket, and quickly dug around for a lighter. I didn't usually smoke, but I always kept a lighter on hand. And now I could use it on my rounds.

Satisfied, securing my cap on my head, I slipped out the door and reached the wheelhouse just as the clock hit 22:00.

Murdoch was already there, in uniform, calmly addressing the captain as though he'd been there the whole night. When Captain Smith saw me, he smiled. "Ah. Miss Wallace. Good evening."

"Evening, captain." I touched my fingers to the brim of my hat.

"I've just one request for you tonight," he said. "Word has reached me of your excellent coffee. Would you mind brewing a batch for tonight's watch?"

_Patching uniforms? _came Mrs. Worsting's voice, unbidden in my mind. _Brewing tea?_

"Certainly, sir." I smiled, trying to make it look like it didn't hurt. Murdoch was staring at the captain from behind, mouth in a thin line. He didn't like it, either. I headed for the officer's mess.

Well, it was my own fault. I'd been the one to insist on making coffee my first day. Besides, the process helped calm my nerves. I guessed I could use that now. I needed to switch from completely wired to focused.

When I returned a short time later, my own grumblings under control, Captain Smith was still on the bridge. "Thank you," he said to me. "I know everyone's grateful. Mr. Murdoch, will you check in with the crow's nest?"

"Yes, sir," Murdoch said, disappearing into the wheelhouse.

Smith turned toward me. "So, Miss Wallace," he said, hands linked behind his back. "Tell me. Doing all right, with your job? With the crew?"

"Fine, sir," I said honestly.

"You're being treated fairly? Plenty to do?"

"Yes, sir."

"Excellent. Mr. Murdoch tells me you're a hard worker, so everything should go smoothly when you become Lightoller's charge next week. It wouldn't hurt to get to know the man—he's a decent chap. He'll expect your help."

I nodded. "He'll get it, sir." I was surprised by the pang in my heart at the thought of not working under Murdoch. I hardly saw Mr. Wilde now; once Murdoch became chief officer it would probably be much the same.

"Good. Keep up the good work, Miss Wallace. Good night."

"Good night." I watched him head into the wheelhouse for a few final words with the officers, then realized I was just standing there, and went to see if there was anything I could do to help.

It was a busy evening. Murdoch had me learning star charts with Moody, who was blinking and sleepy-eyed, as this was his off-night. I found the whole thing incredible, but then again, I wasn't tired—was wide awake, even. Murdoch and I kept locking eyes, at which point neither of us could keep from smiling and had to look away again. I was unable to stop thinking of the feeling of his fingers tangled in mine, his blue eyes shining as he joked with my friends. A few times I had to shake my head to snap myself back to the star charts.

Pitman was doing most of the teaching, the three of us crowded around the table in the chartroom, but Murdoch would pop in for ten minutes at a time, adding something here, saying something there.

"We've got instruments, though," Moody said when he missed one of the constellations for the third time. "This is the twentieth century. Do we really need the stars?"

"Aye, then," Pitman said bracingly, "What're you going to do when your mail craft is sunk twenty miles from the nearest coast and you're teetering in a lifeboat with forty witless passengers? Pick a direction and hope you get lucky?"

Moody kept his mouth shut after that. I did, too, trying to absorb everything, occasionally glancing out the window in front of us to see if I could pick out any of the patterns we were studying. The lesson ended with the promise that there would be many more.

I started rounds by myself for once, which was fine with me. I was reviewing the evening's events in mind play-by-play, trying to figure out why the hell I couldn't stop feeling so giddy. "This is stupid," I muttered to myself, voice swept away by the wind. No one else was out and about so late. "Clearly he doesn't have feelings for you. He's just being nice to make up for his idiocy a few days ago. He's your bloody superior officer. And if he _did _have feelings. . ." I trailed off. Would I even want them?

Well. Yes.

Swearing under my breath, I went to the railing for a moment, pausing to look out over the black ocean, endless stars overhead. I hooked my arms over the rail, leaning carelessly, chin on my crossed arms, trying to pick out constellations as I thought.

Even if I craved his affection, I couldn't have it. I was a junior officer. It would be horrendously improper. Court-Marshall improper. Even more improper than my position with the crew. And what if we _did_ get together, and he left the _Titanic_? Or I did? Went to work for some other White Star Liner, or a different company? We couldn't be together then. And he'd told me himself that he chose the sea over a woman he loved. Granted, one who didn't quite understand the lure of the ocean. But _still_.

"Taking it easy tonight, are you?"

I flung myself away from the rail and straightened. It was Murdoch, of course, hands in his pockets as he approached. "No, sir," I said. "I—I'm sorry, I was trying to pick out a few constellations."

"At ease, Miss Wallace. You're not in trouble."

I let go of a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. "Right. Shall we go on?"

"Not so fast." he paused beside me, leaning on the railing, looking up at the sky. "Find anything?"

He was onto me. I thought quickly, scanning the heavens. "Well, Polaris is there." I pointed. "Ursa Major, uh, there. Ursa Minor, over here. Erm. Antlia, there—"

"You were listening, then," he said with approval.

"I can't believe I'll ever know them all," I admitted, leaning on the railing again, though with slightly more decorum. "How long did it take you?"

"Oh, ages," he said, almost wistfully, still looking up at them all. "Dead useful, though."

I remembered the cigar in my coat pocket. "Er, would it be improper of me to smoke?"

"I don't think so." He glanced over. "Until earlier I didn't know you did."

"Rarely," I insisted, pulling it and the lighter out of my pocket. "But especially if there's good cigars involved. Still have that penknife on you?" He handed it over, and I set about sawing the end off the cigar. "So—as you said, dead useful. You've used stars before, aside from intimidating junior officers?"

We started walking. He told me about the time he'd wrecked off the coast of South America and had no navigational tools to guide him back—just stars. He talked a bit about the near-disaster of the liner _Arabic_, how he'd disobeyed his chief officer and saved the ship because of it. We started passing the cigar back and forth, his gloved fingers brushing over mine as we traded, me trying not to think about tasting him on the cigar.

He grew tired of my questions and turned them on me; I found myself babbling about how frustrating it was to want to work and not be allowed, about how I longed for both pretty gowns and a set of overalls, how my blood blazed to do something that would give women the right to vote.

"But you, you're something impressive," I heard myself say. We'd long since thrown the dead cigar butt over the railing. "You've saved lives. I've just walked about with banners and made old men angry."

"Surely you aren't serious." We were slowly drawing within sight of the officer's quarters, and he was looking at me incredulously. "Look at you. You're a junior officer, Ellen. Can any other woman say that, anywhere? And at least you're actually putting up a fight for what you believe in. Plenty of women think like you, and don't bother speaking up."

I was touched by his compliment, but before I could reply, I saw the clock above the entrance to the crew's quarters. "Oh," I said.

"Oh," he agreed, holding the door open for me. It was nearly three—our rounds had long since ended. "Well." he said, suddenly embarrassed as we entered the corridor. "Good night, Miss Wallace."

"Mr. Murdoch." I reached for my door handle, and found myself trying to think of what I'd do if he tried to kiss me just now. Realized that protocol be damned—I wanted him to. "That was fun, belowdecks."

"That it was." He turned the key in his lock, and smiled, meeting my eyes. His were full of an emotion I couldn't quite name, and before I could figure it out, he was moving into his room. "Good night."

"Night."

In my room, I pulled off my coat and jacket, peeled off my gloves and let them fall straight to the floor. I went to the right-hand wall, the one that connected my room with Murdoch's. I pressed my forehead against it, palms flat against the cool surface, closing my eyes. "Damn it," I whispered. "You'd make this a lot easier if you went back to being an ass."

After a minute I forced myself to move. I gently scrubbed the makeup off my face, stripped down to my skivvies, and wrapped myself in my blankets. I had to stop this. And so did he.


	14. Thirteen: Murdoch

Author's Note: Hey gang. As usual, thank you so much for your lovely comments! This chapter is the last of the is-there-actually-plot-here? chapters, I promise. The next one? Oh. You will love the next one. I am confident in that. You can probably tell where it's headed, too. And again, I realize the unrealistic situations in which I place these characters. Ah, well. Fiction. Enjoy, and please leave some constructive (or otherwise) criticism when you're done. Until next week!

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Chapter Thirteen: Murdoch  
April 14, 1912  
08:15

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Murdoch was on the verge of losing his inner battle with a horde of gargantuan yawns, each of which mounted a more furious assault than the last. He couldn't exactly let himself go because he was seated on the makeshift altar in the dining hall, right in the middle of church services that morning. He was stage right of Captain Smith and Mr. Wilde, and he was facing over a hundred bright, well-rested passengers.

It had been a long night. He slept fitfully and wouldn't get more, considering his next watch started soon after the service was over.

Maybe if he hadn't spent five minutes with his forehead crushed against the wall connecting his and Ellen's rooms when they returned last night. Maybe if he'd just gone to bed instead of standing there like an idiot, one hand resting against the smooth painted panels, trying not to think of dragging each pin from her hair, her brown eyes wide and wanting.

He snapped himself out of it. He was at a church service, for God's sake.

He glanced up. Boxhall, Lowe, Moody and Ellen were seated in the first row, down and across from him, all in various degrees of glaze. Ellen was fiddling with a button on her cuff, eyes boring into the carpet at the base of the stage. Suddenly she glanced up; Murdoch looked away, but not soon enough—she'd seen him looking.

He chanced a glance back a moment later to find her studying the floor again, a blush in her cheeks—or cheek, really, seeing as the makeup on the bruised side hid most of the color.

Murdoch was trying to ignore the fact that perhaps her feelings were mutual. But he knew, in the part of him that was proper, the part of him that had been at sea over sixteen years, he knew that even if they were mutual, even if she wanted him to deftly work each button of her greatcoat undone and—and so on, that it just couldn't happen. In every sense. He had to stop this. She wouldn't even be his charge in less than a week. She'd be Lightoller's, and Murdoch would hardly ever see her.

Somehow he delivered his reading without stammering, and without Wilde's flourish, and without Captain Smith's brevity, and they were released.

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It was a bright, sunny day on the North Atlantic, wind pleasant but not overwhelming, great billowing clouds piled high above them. Murdoch couldn't help but feel a bit guilty when he decided to send Ellen on errands that took her throughout the ship's innards, away from the pleasant weather. But what else was he supposed to do? There would be other gorgeous days, and besides, that part of him that he currently hated, the rational part, knew that taking a step back from her was the best way to crush his feelings for her.

At one point, still before noon, he realized it was probably a good thing she was away—Thomas led a tour through the wheelhouse that included the family who had been so wretched at dinner the other night, the DeWitt-Bukaters, and the fiancé, Mr. Hockley. Thomas didn't exactly seem thrilled at the idea, either, but was a gentleman, and acted it. Murdoch stood with his back to them in the wheelhouse, heart thudding slightly when he realized that the daughter, Rose might recognize him from the party in the third-class common room. Fortunately she seemed distracted, though her mother stared first at him, and then looked around—presumably intent on mouthing off at Ellen.

He tried not to glare.

A little after one, Murdoch was on his rounds alone when Lightoller fell into step with him, brandishing sandwiches. "Hungry?" Lights asked, waggling the small paper-wrapped lunch.

"Starved," Murdoch said gratefully, taking it, and together they perched under the jutting deck of the wheelhouse. It was fairly secure; they had a good view of the bow, so they were technically still on rounds, but they were out of sight of the other officers—who were directly above them. Sitting there munching and chatting with his old friend, Murdoch could feel contentment deep within his bones. "Haven't shirked duty like this in awhile," he admitted finally.

"It's hardly shirking," Lights said around a mouthful of ham and cheese. He swallowed. "Just lunching. And anyway, you looked like you could use a break. Miss a bit of sleep last night?"

Murdoch shrugged. "Had to get up earlier than usual for the service."

"Right, I forgot. Night shift. Not exactly looking forward to taking over that one."

"Well, you've a few days, still." Another week and a half until they came charging back to Southampton. At which point Ellen would become Lightoller's assistant.

"True. So how's Ellen? Has she gotten into any more scraps?"

Murdoch couldn't stop a smile. "No, she's fine. She'll be yours soon enough."

"I'm rather looking forward to it. Though I could go without being woken at three in the morning."

Murdoch thought back again, remembering the trust in her eyes, the blood on her cuff. "I didn't mind."

Lights shifted, crumbling his sandwich wrapper. "I can tell."

Murdoch glanced over. The other officer was staring intently out at the sea ahead of them. "Can you," he said flatly.

"Might want to be a _bit _more guarded, mate," Lights said, still not looking at him.

"What—"

"Oh, come on." Lights glanced back, grinning. "I _saw _the way you've been looking at her. And at breakfast, when I stopped in for tea."

Murdoch felt his heart skip, and racked his brain. He didn't think he'd lingered in his occasional glances. "I don't know what you're—"

"I doubt anyone else noticed," Lights said, leaning against the rail now. "They haven't known you nearly as long as I have. But look at you. You're smitten."

Murdoch's face felt warm. "Sod off, Lights. I am _not_."

"It's no use lying to me, old friend. I'm just telling you to be more careful, in case someone else notices."

"Lights, listen to me. We're not. . ." Murdoch let out a frustrated sigh. "There's nothing _there_. We _can't _be involved. She's a junior officer."

"It wouldn't be so bad." Lights was grinning again, ignoring the protests. Murdoch couldn't decide whether he wanted to throttle Lights or not. "You could probably go undetected for quite awhile, especially once she becomes my responsibility."

"Lights. . ." Murdoch said helplessly. He hadn't felt this silly in ages.

"If you ask me, which I know you _won't_, I think it's brilliant. You could use a bit of honest fun."

Murdoch gripped the rail in front of him. "Right, well, I won't deny that. But there isn't anything there. And there won't be. There _mustn't _be."

"Don't give up so easily." Lightoller straightened, clapped him on the shoulder, and turned to go. "Now come on, I've held you up long enough. You've got to get back to your rounds. Grumpy sod."

"Pillock." Murdoch managed a smile. "Thanks for the sandwich."

"You're welcome. And Will?" Lights turned back, now walking backwards and away. "I've seen her looking at you, too."

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Loads on his mind, Murdoch got back to the wheelhouse in time to speak with Mr. Wilde, who was coming on for the next shift. As they were finishing, Ellen turned up on deck with a completed report for Murdoch. He realized he was pleased he was to see her, thinking that he wouldn't send her on such long errands again, wondering exactly how true Lightoller's words were.

And she didn't look like she'd only gotten four hours of sleep, apart from the wisp or two of hair that had come out of the knot at the back of her neck. He thought of the pins again.

"Engine room's doing better," she said, handing over the slip of paper that was the report. "Holding steady."

"Oh—Ms. Wallace, glad you're here." Mr. Wilde stepped in beside Murdoch. "I need a favor. Mr. Lowe?" Wilde snagged the passing fifth officer. "Have you time to run an errand? Good. We need help in the mail hold. Listen up, both of you."

Murdoch listened with them, a bit annoyed. Wilde wasn't used to having either officer on his shifts, so he wasn't sure what they were capable of. Ellen or Lowe probably could have done the job on their own—the barest lift of Ellen's eyebrow, aimed at Murdoch, reinforced that fact. He gave a slight shrug, and flicked his eyes toward Wilde. If the chief asked you to do something, you did it, and no questions.

After they left, Murdoch went to the crew's mess to grab a cup of tea and try to get his thoughts in order. Despite Lights' unconventional blessing, Murdoch wasn't convinced it was a good idea. And besides, he needed to be _certain_. He couldn't just dive in on a whim, especially with so much at stake. What if Lights had misinterpreted her stares? What if her friendliness was just that—friendliness, not flirting? If he brought it up, they'd destroy their working relationship, too, which would make every single crossing a complete disaster even if she was Lightoller's responsibility.

Murdoch made it back to the bridge to check in only to see Mr. Moody on the wheelhouse telephone, brows knit together, struggling to be heard, Mr. Pitman hovering behind him. "What?" Moody was saying. "_Please _repeat, I can't_—_"

Murdoch and Pitman traded surprised glances, for even at that distance they could hear the garbled nonsense coming from the line—people yelling, and then the broken voice of the steward: "_There's a—fight—_"

Murdoch turned on his heel and was already heading towards the stairs that would take him down. "E-Deck! By the mail hold!" Moody called after him, and Murdoch found Pitman at his side. "The stewards are outnumbered!"

They took the stairs three at a time, lettered decks blurring past, the same thought racing through Murdoch's mind: _It's Ellen. It's Ellen. Please don't let it be Ellen_.

The silence between Pitman and Murdoch was terse; Murdoch supposed his face was a grim mask from the way passengers leaped out of their way as he hurried toward the fight, unstoppable. He had no idea what he was going to do when he got there—just that he had to get there.

They heard the fight before they could see it, shouts of encouragement and protest rebounding down the walls, so that if they hadn't known to head for the mail hold, they wouldn't have known which way to go. People were hurrying to and from the noise, but as they saw the uniforms heading their direction, were backing out of the way.

There was a crowd gathered; Murdoch could see parts of the scuffling ahead—the white uniforms of the third-class stewards, occasional flashes of navy blue. There was no way they would get through or make themselves heard. Unless. . .

Murdoch glanced over; sure enough, there was a silver whistle hanging from Pitman's neck. Murdoch gestured to it, and Pitman raised the whistle to his lips.

_FWEEEEEEEEEEEE._

Everyone froze.

Murdoch and Pitman elbowed their way through the stunned-silent crowd until they reached the fight itself.

It was a mess. Three stewards, a bedraggled Lowe and Ellen, and six ruffians had been fighting. Two still tried to continue the fight, two of the stewards holding them back. Lowe and Ellen looked like they wanted to disappear—hats gone, clothes slightly askew. Ellen's hair had mostly come undone, and her nose was bleeding again, though not as badly as the other night. She was biting her lower lip hard, eyes level on his, unapologetic and dying of shame all at once.

"All of you." Murdoch's voice was low and deadly, glancing to the gathered crowd. "Dismissed. _Now_."

The crowd began to shuffle away.

Murdoch turned back to the fighters. "Mr. Lowe. Miss Wallace. Abovedecks with you. Mr. Pitman, can you manage the report with these gentlemen?"

"Yes, sir." Pitman turned to the stewards, stern-faced.

"Very well. You two, with me. Now." Murdoch turned and went back the way they'd come. His heart was pounding, but not in a good way. He was confused as to the hows and whys, and didn't quite think he could bear it if Ellen had caused the fight. Either way, they'd have to tell the captain this time. Too many people were involved, and no doubt Smith would have heard of the commotion on the bridge by now. He could only hope the captain wouldn't try to dismiss Ellen on the spot.

"Sir," Lowe tried quietly. "We were only—"

"Hush," Murdoch all but snapped. "Save it for the captain."

Neither Lowe nor Ellen spoke on the way up, just trailed behind Murdoch like scolded ducklings. Murdoch did do them a small mercy and took them a less populated back route, but before long he left them in a slump-shouldered mess just outside the wheelhouse while he reported to the captain.

In minutes they were assembled in the captain's quarters with a physician on the way, Lowe and Ellen sitting like school children about to be punished. Lowe had given his handkerchief to Ellen, which she was holding against her nose. Captain Smith was staring between the two of them and Murdoch, brows low, mustache turned downward. "Explain yourselves," he said finally.

"We were on our way back from the mail hold," Lowe started. He appeared mostly unscathed, though grim. "The fight was already breaking out. We only stepped in to help the stewards, but those men were too stubborn to stop. We had a duty to help, so we tried."

Smith turned away. "Duty. Indeed. Was that the way of it, Miss Wallace?"

"Yes, sir," Ellen muttered, not meeting Murdoch's eyes.

The captain sighed, running a hand over his face. "In all my years, I've never heard of junior officers getting involved in the affairs of passengers the way you two just have. Fights of that nature are left up to the stewards. If they seem outnumbered, you find help elsewhere. Understand?"

"Yes, sir," they said together.

"Miss Wallace," Smith said next, and she met his eyes, back straight, though Murdoch sensed she wanted to fold in half and disappear. "I shouldn't have to tell you that a woman—a junior officer, at that—has no place in a fight. If anything, you should have been the one finding more help. By God, you've proven yourself so far, but this is absolutely absurd. I don't know how things were during your days in your cousin's shipyard, but it's different here. You have joined a time-honored corps rich with a tradition of respect, patience, and restraint. We do not throw punches to solve our problems. Is that quite clear?"

"Sir, that isn't fair." Lowe spoke up, and everyone turned to him in surprise.

Captain Smith looked as though steam was about to start curling out of his ears. "Pardon."

"It's just—you're speaking as though she was the only one who was involved, but she was better at trying to pull them apart than I was, and she definitely wasn't trying to pull punches."

Ellen was staring at Lowe, wide-eyed at his defense. _She doesn't expect it_, Murdoch thought, heart aching for a moment. _She doesn't expect any of us to fight for her_. Maybe she'd hoped he, Murdoch, would, but he _couldn't_ in this situation. She and Lowe had done something stupid, and this was how it worked.

There was a silence, Smith apparently calculating whether the truth or his rage was more prudent. "Is this true, Miss Wallace?"

She said quietly, "Yes, sir."

_She couldn't have punched anyone anyway_, Murdoch remembered, wishing he could say something. _She would have destroyed her bruised knuckles._

Captain Smith sighed. "Very well. Either way, do not let this happen again. I will _not_ have the next captain of this ship be made a fool of because his junior officers can't keep themselves in line. And I will especially not permit you, Miss Wallace, to embarrass Mr. Murdoch or Mr. Lightoller again. Dismissed."

Murdoch saw her eyebrows slant upward and her cheeks grow scarlet, and she closed her eyes for a second. That was the worst part for her, he realized, heart thumping again. Not the fact that she might've been let go, not the fact that Smith was angry at her—the idea that something _she _did reflected poorly on Murdoch.

There was a knock on the door as Ellen and Lowe stood; the captain opened it to admit the ship's physician. "Dr. O'Laughlin. Please escort Miss Wallace back to her quarters," Smith told the physician, a kindly older chap. "And take a look at her nose." Ellen nodded to the physician, but to get out the door she had to slide past Murdoch. He tried to meet her eyes, desperate for a way to hint that everything would be fine, but she couldn't even look at him, and he caught the flash of tears in her lashes as she slipped past.

He felt like a prat again.

"Mr. Murdoch." Smith closed the door after the physician, Lowe, and Ellen were gone. "We knew having a woman on staff would be difficult. But even I couldn't have anticipated this."

Murdoch switched from prat to defensive. He owed her that much. "She was doing what she deemed right."

Smith shook his head. "But it isn't. She's a _woman_. She has no place in a fight."

"Which she has no doubt learned."

Smith sighed, reaching for his hat. "I suppose you're right. You really would prefer to keep her around?"

"Yes, sir. Her work ethic is admirable."

Smith settled the cap on his head. "Well, fear not. She'll be Mr. Lightoller's to deal with soon enough. Good afternoon, Mr. Murdoch."

"Afternoon, sir." They saluted each other, and then Murdoch went to his quarters. Inside, he threw his jacket over the back of his desk chair, beginning to pace. He could hear bits of conversation from Ellen's room—no words, but the low drone of voices. Before long he heard the physician leave and her door snap shut.

Murdoch sank into his desk chair, running a hand over his face. He wanted to talk to her, to say something—anything—about that confrontation with the captain. He didn't like that he'd been so cold and detached, but what could he have done? He was an officer, she was his charge, and she and Lowe had just been blindingly stupid. Of course he was angry. She could have gotten herself far worse than a bloody nose. She could have been fired. Someone could have easily broken her arm, or a leg. He shouldn't have to explain to her why the fight should have been avoided.

But one way or another he'd better go talk to her about it, so they could sort it out. He'd been thinking on and off about their watch this evening, and was relishing the opportunity to go over the star charts in more detail. To get to know her better. He'd _loved _the way she'd talked with him the previous evening (that morning, really). How she'd been so open and honest, how she'd clearly enjoyed his stories, too.

Murdoch stood up, took a deep breath, and loosened his collar slightly. "Stop thinking so bloody hard about this," he muttered. Then he opened his door and headed for hers, hoping she could forgive him for doing his job.


	15. Fourteen: Wallace

Author's Note: Here it is, friends. I've had the basic lines for one of these scenes worked out and written for nearly six years. Bout time it gets on the nets. Hope I get some review-love for this chap—it is, I assume, what you've been waiting for. I know I have. Until next week!

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Chapter Fourteen: Wallace  
April 14, 1912  
15:07

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I felt like hell.

I was curled on my bed, holding a pillow over my head, waiting for Dr. O'Loughlin's painkiller to kick in as I allowed myself a few minutes to wallow in this crushing feeling of stupidity.

I knew jumping into that fight was the right thing to do. The stewards had been outnumbered. Mr. Lowe and I, by this point friends enough to know a bit about one another's past, only had to look at each other to know we'd be helping. He had a history of being rambunctious, and I knew how to pull apart hot-tempered fighters. There was no questioning it when we dove in.

But we couldn't have known it would get so out of control. And I didn't know Murdoch would be the one coming down there, didn't expect the shock on his face. Didn't expect his coldness on the way back up. And then Captain Smith put it into words, the fact that I'd utterly embarrassed Murdoch, and I. . .

I rolled over to face the wall, still hiding under the pillow. Maybe I'd just sleep through dinner. I couldn't see him so soon. I'd been thinking about him—or trying not to, rather—all day, wondering if we'd end up back in the third class common room again this evening or next, hoping against hope that he'd ask me to dance. Trying to stop wondering exactly what his lips tasted like.

And now this.

He'd hardly want to see me again, let alone dance.

Someone knocked.

I pulled the pillow off my face, but otherwise didn't move. "Yes?"

"Ellen." Murdoch's voice, low and soft. "It's me."

I sat up. I should have known he'd come to find me. Suddenly self conscious, I realized that my hair was probably wretched. "Hold on." Quickly I jammed a few pins into it to hold it back and up. Then I stood and crossed to the door.

His officer's coat was gone, but his vest, shirt and loose tie made him all the more handsome. "May I come in?"

"Yeah." I left the door and stood back, folding my arms, bracing myself for whatever he was about to say, telling myself I could take his disappointment.

He followed me in, and shut the door behind him.

I gaped as he turned to face me. "Mr. Murdoch, the door—"

"I don't care." He took a step forward and startled adrenaline rushed my insides, but I held my ground. Hard blue eyes not let getting go of mine, he said, "Why did you do it?"

I blinked, surprised that he'd asked, not immediately scolded. "I had to."

"No you didn't." He spread his hands, eyes pleading. "Not after the other night. You should've left the stewards to it. The captain could have easily dismissed you."

"But he didn't." I was trying not to let the anger build in me, trying to convince myself that he was only concerned about me, but he was doing it all wrong. "I'm still here."

"You nearly weren't. What could have—"

"Mr. Murdoch, those stewards needed _help_." He shook his head; I raised my voice slightly. "They were outnumbered, and Lowe and I knew we could help them end it. Another minute and we would've had them!"

"Will you avoid it, in the future, then?" His voice rose, too. "Just stay out of trouble. Your position here is already precarious, and you're not helping matters by going 'round breaking rules and getting into fights."

I gritted my teeth, livid, meeting his eyes squarely, sorely regretting every moment I'd spent imagining his hands threading into my hair. "Right," I spat, hands clenching at my sides. "You're right. I'm not cut out for this job. I should have just stayed at home, tatting lace and looking for a rich second husband. At least then I'd have better clothes!" I strode past him, wrenching open the door, storming into the corridor.

"I don't understand you!" he snapped as he followed me out, my door slamming behind him. "You denounce the wealthy class for everything they are, yet you still wish to be a part of them!"

"And _you_!" I shot back, whirling around to face him, shaking hard, every insecurity suddenly tumbling to the back of my throat. "You mope about like a—like a—" His eyes blazed. "—like an old _woman_—" at his stunned expression, I raised my voice. "—yes, an old woman!—because of a maiden voyage kink. You can't be happy with the position that some shipmates around the world would kill for. It's for two damn weeks and you have to mope and mope because, oh, poor _you_, you're the bloody. _First. Officer_. Well, boo _hoo_. D'you know that when you're not—when you're not whining about your job, you're one of the best men I've ever met!"

I couldn't stop. I went rambling on, watching my hands flail. "You're—you're witty and you're sharp as a pin and you've done great things, and—you _care_ about me, like no one on this ship has, or you did, at least, before I screwed everything up—" I was starting to blubber. My eyes prickled, and my voice snagged horribly. I couldn't look at him, and instead looked wildly about. What white wood trim the ship had. "—And—and in a week you'll be the ruddy chief officer and Lights will be in charge of me and I'll hardly see you any more and it. . . Jesus, Will. It's going to be awful."

Silence. Oh God, what had I just _said_?

Murdoch just stared at me, thunderstruck. For a second his jaw bobbed helplessly, then he looked away, said, "I see."

More silence. Nothing. Zilch, save for the churning in my stomach and the pounding in my ears. God _damn_ it. _Just walk away_, I thought angrily, done with him, done with waiting, and turned away.

"Ellen," he said softly.

I froze, but couldn't turn around. "What."

His fingers tangled in mine, and hot and cold shivers raced up my arm from his touch. He tugged, gently. "Come here," he said, pulling me toward my room.

I let myself be tugged, afraid to look at him, memorizing the feel of his hand in mine. He opened the door, pulled me inside, and shut it again, not letting go of my hand.

"Ellen," he said once more, and used his other hand to tilt my chin up.

My breath caught as I got a good look at him. He wasn't angry, he wasn't confused. He was delighted, his shining eyes and adoring smile echoing back every feeling I'd been attempting to hide the past few days.

Letting go of my hand, he reached up, tracing his steady fingers gently down my good cheek.

I closed my eyes, sparks trailing his touch as he grew bolder, threading his fingers into my hair _exactly _as I'd I looked again he was closer; I could see his blue eyes flicking from my own eyes and down to my lips, his own parted slightly. "Ellen," he murmured, voice husky.

My heart was pounding, adrenaline thrumming in my veins, but I focused. I reached up, took the lapels of his vest in my fingers, my eyes meeting his, the heat, the open, unguarded want in them—and I pulled him backward with me one step, so that my back hit the door of my quarters.

He grinned, bracing his free hand against the wall by my right shoulder, my body between him and the door.

Then he bent his head.

His mouth was warm, and soft, taking mine carefully, and I tightened my fists in his lapels, kissing him back, suddenly sensing that beneath his tenderness was a great reserve of need that he was just barely holding back.

I wanted to find it.

I nipped his bottom lip; he responded by locking his hands around my waist, pressing me firmly against the door, and gently tonguing his way in, at which point I must have whimpered. He kept going, and I was giving as good as he gave, and it was some minutes before we reluctantly broke apart, out of breath, foreheads pressed together, staring at each other in wonder.

One of his hands returned to my hair and he threaded it deeper than before, at which point I felt his fingers give an odd little twist—he was pulling at a hairpin. "May I?" he whispered.

My insides turned over; good _grief_, who knew he could have been so—so—I stopped thinking, nodded mutely, and pulled him back to my lips.

Murdoch tugged and a section of my hair fell, at which point he changed tactics and began gently kissing his way up the side of my neck; I gasped and stifled a giggle as he found the last two pins and pulled them loose, my hair now messily about my shoulders. He drew back, smoothing strands from my face. "Should we—" he pressed his forehead against mine again, smiling, both of us breathing heavily. "—I don't know, don't you want to talk about, uh, this—"

"Probably." I pulled his lapels once more, and his body flush against mine. "But then again—"

A knock next door made us jump. Someone was looking for him. I prayed we hadn't been heard, both of us holding absolutely still. He gently pressed his lips against my forehead; I closed my eyes, buzzing with the thrill of him.

Footsteps headed away from Murdoch's door; he began to bend his head again.

Someone rapped knuckles against my door right behind my head; I gasped silently and pushed Murdoch backwards, away from the door, both of us now frozen a few steps into the room. "Yes?" I called, heart hammering.

"Miss Wallace, it's Mr. Lightoller. Have you seen our first officer?"

Murdoch smiled, shook his head, put his hands on my hips, and drew me against him. Trying desperately not to squeak, I called back, "No, but if I run into him, I'll tell him you were looking. Everything all right?"

"Yes, fine. Thank you." His footsteps faded away, wheelhouse door shutting after him.

"Lights is looking for you," I told Murdoch, who laughed, took one of my hands, and pulled it up to his lips. He kissed my palm gently, eyes shining.

Suddenly I sobered up a bit, and folded his hand into mine. "Look, Will, I. . ." I swallowed, staring at his loosened necktie. "This. . . this isn't supposed to happen. I'm a woman and a junior officer. Not to mention a widow, not to mention _working. _I have every 'W' going against me." I closed my eyes, wondering exactly how hard he'd thought about this before sweeping me into his arms. "No one's supposed to want me."

He cupped my face in his hands, his left hand careful on my bruised right cheek, and tilted it up toward me, so I could see his eyes. They were so sincere, with that completely unguarded want shining out of them. "I do," he said, and kissed my forehead. "Believe me, Ellen, I do." He kissed my temple. "And I am so bloody sorry for those first days."

"You were only—"

"I was only being a complete pillock."

"Well." I couldn't help but smile up at him. "Can't exactly argue that."

Murdoch smiled, too, but shook his head. "I can't imagine how hard it must have been. I couldn't even see you had it worse than me—you didn't even know anyone, and the one person who was supposed to be helping you was too bitter to snap out of it."

Hearing him say it, admitting that he'd been wrong, that he really had been an ass—what a relief. "Thank you," I managed, realizing it would be most unromantic to burst into tears. He seemed to sense this, and folded me into his arms.

"You're brilliant, Ellen," he said into my hair, my nose somewhere in his neck. _Glory_, he smelled good this close. "You aren't fussy, and you know boats, and you've been in shipyard fights, for goodness' sake, and you're trying so hard to make a way for other women like you. And you've gone out of your way to be kind to me despite my idiocy."

"And I shouldn't have said those things about you in the corridor." I pulled back to look up at him, suddenly feeling guilty. "They were completely out of line."

"And accurate, I might add."

"Well. . . maybe a little." I smiled. "But what are we going to do?" I stepped back, lowering myself into my desk chair, needing something steady beneath me. "I can hardly imagine anyone approving of this."

"I don't know." Murdoch shook his head, propping his hands on the back of the chair. "Your cousin, maybe. Charles, for certain."

I lifted an eyebrow. "Lights?"

"Yes, he. . ." He shook his head again. ". . . er, talked to me earlier today. Seemed to think I was doting on you. Slightly. And that you were, on me. He approved."

Giggling, I could feel myself glowing scarlet. "Well, that's ruddy embarrassing."

"We'll just have to be careful."

"I guess it won't be that hard." I remembered, heart sinking. "I won't even get to see you much, after next week. Our schedules will be so different."

"We'll _make _the time," he insisted, perching on the edge of the bed beside the chair. "And there will be days when we've put in to port, where we won't even have normal duty—we'll see each other then."

"What if someone finds out?" I said, looking over at him, worried. "We could both be in trouble. I could live with it if they threw _me_ out—I'm surprised they haven't yet. But if _you_ get into trouble over it. . ."

"Then we won't get caught." He could tell I wasn't satisfied, so he reached out, brushing my hair back from my face again, voice softening. "So there's unanswered questions. There always are. Let's just be careful, and face them as they come. For now. . ."

We were fumbling at each other's buttons when we realized that we'd better stop while we were ahead.

"I should probably find Lights," he said breathlessly, shrugging his vest back on. "Someone's bound to be suspicious." He stepped forward, then reached up and buried his hands in my hair again. "Ellen, you have no idea how long I've wanted to do this."

"It can't have been that long!"

"It was long enough." He grinned. "I want to dance with you tonight. Properly. Whether it's with your friends or without them."

"I'd likethat." I grinned back, my arms around his trim waist. "You'll be at dinner, then?"

We made plans to eat at 18:00, and then he gathered me to him, kissed me hard, and left, checking the hall before he stepped out, glancing back at me with a smile and a wink.

I fell back against the closed door, nearly laughing, fingers tracing along my lips, which were slightly swollen from this new attention.

Stark contrast from little over an hour ago, when I'd been dreading our watch tonight. I was now eager for it as I could get.

My thoughts were a jumble—the excitement of the fight, the shame in the captain's scolding, the thrill of Murdoch's kisses, the somersaulting innards when his fingers began working my buttons free. I had to get out of this cabin and get some fresh air.

So I pulled myself together, ran a brush through my hair and re-pinned it, nearly giggling at the way Murdoch had been so delighted. Satisfied, I grabbed my small key ring and stepped into the hallway. Turning to the boat deck, I realized I couldn't stop grinning. Hadn't stopped since he'd left.

For the first time in a week, I was truly, giddily, perfectly happy.


	16. Fifteen: Wallace

Author's Note: I have the best reviewers. It's true. Thanks for the lovely words, gang! This chapter. . . well, here's where it all changes. A few things: I haven't forgotten about Quartermaster Rowe. He's on an errand. A long errand. At the other end of the ship. Totally. Also, the area on the bridge with the Morse lamp on top, that Captain Smith leans out of to inspect the damage—that's called a bridge wing cab, which for some reason makes me giggle slightly. And _j'accuse _means "I accuse" . . . you. Sort of. Finally, I feel like it's **important to say**: I didn't intend to have the helm scene influence the outcome of the evening. As unrealistic as the circumstances for that scene are anyway, the fact that our heroes share a moment at the helm was in no way meant to imply that they had anything to do with steering into disaster, or, or anything. There we go. Enough rambling. Until next week, dear readers.

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Chapter Fifteen: Wallace  
April 14, 1912  
20:35

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In the officer's mess, Moody couldn't stop snorting with laughter, which was hilarious enough on its own, but then Wilde kept trying to talk around his cigarette, resulting in a muffled, disgruntled-sounding British accent. Then before we knew it, I had somehow not completely failed at poker and had even managed to have a pair in my hand before Pitman destroyed me with a flush.

"Cheaters, the lot of you," I declared around my own cigarette, grinning as I pushed my share of the wager across the table at him. "The deck is stacked."

"Another round?" Moody asked us as Wilde shuffled.

"Oh, absolutely." Murdoch grinned, leaning in across the table. "But my money is on Miss Wallace this round."

"Hope you like being broke," I teased, our eyes locking for just a second too long. My heart skipped pleasantly as I glanced around to see whether anyone noticed us. They hadn't. "Unless your money is on me losing spectacularly."

"We _must _get you playing more," Wilde told me, dealing to his left. "Sooner or later chance will declare you can't get a horrible hand."

I laughed, sorting my cards, reveling in the way a few games of poker had gotten everyone to loosen up—and, when it was revealed that I loved a good card game but couldn't win for anything, eager to help. I studied my cards—not bad. I could work with this. Part of me wished Murdoch and I had been able to slip down to the third class common room for a bit of dancing, but bonding with the other officers was better in the long run. And I was definitely enjoying myself.

Ten minutes later, Wilde came out of nowhere with a straight, crushing the over-confident Pitman, resulting in another round of laughter at Pitman's gape-faced incredulity.

"Hoi, what's this?" Lightoller ducked inside the door, collar of his greatcoat turned up, pink-cheeked from the cold. "How am I supposed to sneak in here in for a cuppa when you're all here to catch me?"

"Forget the tea," Wilde said, raising his coffee cup in salute, speaking at but totally ignoring Lights. "Miss Wallace made coffee again."

"Blimey," Lights said, taking his cap off and going for the kitchen. "I'm there."

I glanced at Murdoch, who half-rolled his eyes at the two of them. I snorted. "Come on, Miss Wallace," Moody said, leaning back in his seat. "Your recipe can't be _that _secret."

"Please," I grinned, "it can't be that hard to figure out. It isn't even a recipe. Just a few spices."

"Ahhh." Lights came out of the kitchen, sipping from his cup. "Much better. Thanks, Ellen."

"Sure." I leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Are we doing another round?"

"Speaking of another round." Moody leaned forward too, looking between me and Murdoch, one of his eyebrows raised. For a second I couldn't breathe, wondering suddenly if he'd found out, if he was about to bring it up— "I'm not sure it's my place to ask, but what exactly happened, belowdecks earlier? There was a fight, wasn't there?"

I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding, but now the whole table and Lights turned curiously toward Murdoch and I. "Some ruffians were getting out of control," Pitman explained, lighting another cigarette. He took a long pull. "We got them in line. That about sums it up, doesn't it, Will?"

"Absolutely." Murdoch leaned back in his seat, smiling teasingly. God, he was handsome. "That was all."

Moody sighed, knowing they were teasing with him, and turned to me. "Harry said you were _both _helping the stewards break up the fight. That means you'd have to've been fighting, though."

"Mr. Moody," said Wilde, shuffling the cards idly. "Don't pry."

"_I'd_ actually like to know," Lights said, probably just to be argumentative with Wilde, but he was looking at me curiously. "I heard the same. But surely. . ."

I lifted an eyebrow, looking at Murdoch in question. He shrugged, grinning, and said, "I don't see why not."

They were all staring. So I took a deep breath and told them—Lowe and I seeing it happen, one of the combatants socking me in the nose, at one point me hauling one of the skinnier fellows off of an older steward. I watched their expressions go from curious to surprised to respectful, Murdoch's steady smile and warm eyes on mine the only unchanging thing among them. They expressed their disbelief, so I told them a bit about the shipyard, my days there because of having a master shipbuilder as a cousin. Also because Thomas was one of the few people who kept me sane after my husband's death seven years ago, but I wasn't about to admit that to this crowd. Maybe Murdoch, later. He'd probably want the whole story, anyway.

Lights got back to his watch, and we played a few more rounds of (_terrible_) poker, but before long, Murdoch and I were the only ones left in the officer's mess, a battlefield of cigarette butts, plates, cups and saucers littering the table between us. I couldn't stop smiling, and he knew exactly why. "I do think," he said gently, "that you're in."

In other words, we'd all broken the ice. They'd let their guards down, they laughed when I'd spewed expletives at the reception of a bad hand, and somehow that fight earlier, bad as it had been in front of Captain Smith, had been enough to break down most of the walls between us.

"Yeah," I agreed, running a hand through my hair. "And it'll get better, too."

"That it will." He stood, came around the table, offered his hand. "Come on. We should get ready for our watch."

Getting ready consisted of me dressing quickly in my uniform, tidying my hair, tucking my gloves in my pocket, and slipping next door to his room.

It consisted of him actually taking the ten minutes to teach me how to tie my own tie, standing behind me as we stood before the small mirror above the dresser. It consisted of him untying it and asking me to redo it while he slowly kissed up the side of my neck. It consisted of me swatting him away with my hat while he laughed, dodged to the front of me, then walked me backwards against the door. It consisted of us trying not to gasp as each kiss went deeper than the last, each minute found us tighter in each other's arms.

The wheelhouse door opening and shutting called us back to reality to find that it was ten to ten, and we had to get out there.

.

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I was supposed to be looking to the stars, but I couldn't stop staring at the sea, waiting for Murdoch to finish speaking with Quartermaster Hitchens so I could deliver my report on the previous watch's wireless communications.

The sea was just so _flat_. Glassy even, reflecting the stars overhead. I could feel the wind, heard the far-off roar of the ship cutting through the waves and felt the distant rumbling of the engines, but for all that, it looked like we weren't actually moving. The horizon and sea had blended together. There wasn't even any moon.

Moody caught me staring out the wheelhouse windows. "Beautiful, isn't it?" he said wistfully. "I've never seen it so calm."

"And we had all those iceberg warnings earlier," I said, the report in my hand. "It's going to make them hard to see, isn't it? Without a moon?"

"They hardly ever come this far south, though," he said. "We'll be fine."

"Miss Wallace." Murdoch was approaching the two of us, smiling. "A wireless report, isn't it?"

He sent Moody to get a report from the engine room, then Boxhall came on deck and called Hitchens away to help with something in the mail hold, leaving Murdoch at the helm and me, jobless, at his side.

"Any ships nearby?" he asked, hands steady on the helm, looking out ahead.

I'd finally put my finger on why it had unnerved me to see him standing at the helm the other night. It was _sexy._ That's what it was. He was so confident and in control, steering this headline-mongering monstrosity of steel and luxury as nonchalantly as someone sipping tea.

"Ellen?" he said, turning to face me.

"Er—sorry." I snapped out of it. "_Californian _was nearby when we last heard—we'll be passing her soon enough; they're at all stop for the night. And the _Olympic _is actually about five hund. . . what?"

He was grinning. "You were staring," he said. "_J'accuse_."

I took a step closer, smiling back, lowering my voice. "Well, you're the one standing there looking so dashing. It's hardly my fault."

He laughed, but then stood to the side slightly, both hands still on the helm, and nodded me over. "C'mere," he said. "You're going to steer."

"I am not." I folded my arms, nearly laughing, remembering the other night when I'd turned him down to keep him from knowing how I actually felt. "You're doing a fine job."

"I _know _you want to," he said fondly. "You were there when the first sheets of steel were bolted together. Of course you want to steer her. Come here, before I have to order you."

I grumbled for a second, then approached, still slightly nervous, glancing around. "You're sure I won't run her off course?"

"Trust me, it takes a bit of muscle." He let go as I replaced my hands where his had been, at about 11 and 2 o'clock, and I stepped behind the helml.

Before the surprise could set in of how amazing it actually was, Murdoch stepped in behind me, his body flush against my back, then closed his hands over mine, far enough forward to kiss my cheek. I don't know how long we stood like that, just staring out at the calm sea, his hands shifting at times from my hands on the helm to run gently up my sides. Breathless, I was staring out at the sea ahead of us. You could _feel _the ship from here. The slight vibration in my fingers was like the pulse of a beating heart, or a satisfied sigh. Which I let out, feeling every bit as though I were part of the ship. "Is it always like this?" I whispered. "This feeling, this. . ." It was like flying. Soaring.

His smile hummed along my ear. "Always."

We stood there, contentedly silent for long moments. At last I murmured, "So what do you want?"

"How do you mean?" His hands at my waist again.

"I dunno, I mean—out of. . . everything. Do you want to stay a chief officer forever?"

"You're philosophical all of the sudden. I suppose. . . well, I suppose I'd like to be a captain someday. Though it's probably contingent on the ability to grow a proper beard."

I giggled; he held me close against him. I caught that smell of soap and aftershave again. "You're probably right."

"What about you, Ellen?" he said against my ear. "Do you want to stay a first officer's assistant forever?"

I heard footsteps behind the wheelhouse door and before I knew it I'd stepped backward and Murdoch had taken over again and Hitchens was coming back with his mail room report.

_We're good_, I thought, Hitchens taking back over with nary a glance my way, Murdoch's voice steady as he asked about the mail room.

It occurred to me that this was going to be more difficult than I'd originally thought.

Seeing that they were busy, glanced at the clock (23:30) and went out to the bridge to peer ahead in the darkness, leaning on the rail. It wasn't long before Murdoch came to join me. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "That was a bit close."

Shrugging, I squinted out ahead, smiling. "It's all right. We just need to be careful."

Murdoch leaned on the rail next to me, our sleeves touching. No one else was on deck, and Hitchens couldn't exactly leave his post. "This isn't going to be easy," he murmured. "But I think I'd rather have difficult with you than easy with anyone else."

My heart pitter-pattered. "And I think I agree."

A door burst open on the forward well deck below us; we jumped and turned toward it to see a couple swinging merrily onto the deck, laughing uncontrollably, twirling each other about.

"_That _is sweet," I said, watching the two of them as they pulled each other close. He was wearing a coat, but she only a pretty, flowing dress—they must have been cold, but didn't show it.

"Isn't that the girl from dinner the other day?" Murdoch asked. "And then down in steerage last night—she had the gown that didn't quite fit in with the rest of them."

It _was _her—Rose DeWitt-Bukater. Her red hair was down about her shoulders, but I recognized the boy, too—one of Fred's new friends, Jack. The two of them started kissing each other fervently. I remembered vaguely that she was engaged to that ass, Mr. Hockley. "She's first class," I said, watching them go. "And he's third. If they can make it work, Will, so can we."

He nodded, running a hand along my back. "So can we." He took a good look around. No one was on deck, we were out of view of Hitchens, and the wind was whizzing through the rigging. Murdoch kissed me, deeply, once again hinting of a restraint that was holding back a great reserve of passion, weakening my knees. _Later_, I found myself thinking happily as we pulled away. _Later I will coax it out of him_.

"I'll have you and James go over some of the star charts later," he said huskily, clearing his throat. "Then perhaps afterwards—"

_Clang clang, clang_.

It was the crow's nest bell. Three clangs meant danger ahead.

I turned straight ahead, both of us squinting into the darkness, but there was nothing, just black sea and black star-spangled sky.

The telephone in the wheelhouse went off like an alarm and then stopped; Moody got it, I could see him through the wheelhouse window, cup of tea in hand. "What—" I began, turning back, but that's when I saw it and the bottom of my stomach dropped as the thing loomed up out of the darkness, almost blacker than the ocean itself, nothing reflecting—

Murdoch hurtled toward the wheelhouse but I couldn't tear myself away; I looked back to hear Moody cry, "Iceberg right ahead!" and Murdoch shout almost over him, _"Hard to starboard!"_ as Moody echoed it back.

"Christ," I gasped, unable to move, waiting for orders. Moody's tea went flying as Murdoch elbowed past him to get to the controls, yanking the lever first to STOP then FULL ASTERN; I turned back to the bow, gaping.

The iceberg was coming closer, becoming huge, and we were still heading straight for it, panic rising up in my throat, heart pounding hard as Murdoch returned to my side. "_Is it hard over_?" he shouted towards Moody.

"It is, yes sir, hard over!"

"Christ," I breathed again, hands over my mouth, watching it draw closer, and we weren't bloody turning one bit; we were sailing straight toward it. I could feel the frozen horror radiating off Murdoch as he stared ahead, his hands in a death grip on the rail, saw the combination of panic and math fighting in eyes as he tried to work it out.

"C'mon," he murmured, staring straight ahead, "C'mon, c'mon, _turn_—"

The bow slowly, _agonizingly_ slowly, began to swing away, but the iceberg was so close now that I could see deck lights reflecting off it, a gray-blue glistening peak and oh God, the collision—

The point of the bow swung clear and for an instant, I could breathe.

Then the rumbling began.

The bridge railing was vibrating in my hands; I released it, taking a stunned step back to feel the whole deck doing the same thing; heard a crunching and saw that the upper deck railing on the starboard side was breaking great chunks of ice onto the well deck, panic bubbling up in me again, the shrieking, muffled sound of tearing metal coming from far below; I stepped back again as the berg went by, huge as a mountain, tiny whisker-like snowflakes suddenly blustering around the deck lights—

"_Hard to port!_" Murdoch shouted, Moody again echoing it back as Hitchens yanked the helm, and Murdoch hurried back into the wheelhouse; I followed in time to see him throwing the switch to close the watertight doors, which set off an alarm bell as they all went at once.

The rumbling in the ship had stopped, the port maneuver taking the aft side of the ship away from the berg.

I realized I was trembling, sweating even, as I went to stand beside Mr. Moody, who hissed to me, "_Shouldn't they have at least a sixty-second warning_?" He meant the stokers in the boiler room.

"They have ladders," I said tightly, eyes on Will.

"Mark the time," he told Moody, voice none too steady. Sweat shone at his temples. "Enter it in the log."

Moody stepped away to do so, fazed but not shaken. Hitchens looked like a kicked puppy. Murdoch's eyes met my own, the watertight indicator alarm bell echoing his blank but horrified expression.

"What was that, Mr. Murdoch?" Captain Smith bustled in, collar stays unfastened, tie loose, vest flapping open.

I wrangled my shaking hands behind my back, heart aching for Murdoch.

"An iceberg, sir," he managed, unable to believe his own voice. "I pulled her hard to starboard and ran the engines full astern, but it was too close. I tried to port 'round it, but she hit, and I—"

"Close the watertight doors." Smith headed for the bridge.

"The doors are closed, sir," Murdoch said, following him out, and I trailed behind them, Boxhall now on my heels, his face a wreck of confusion.

"All stop," the captain called back, and Boxhall called, "All stop, aye sir," and went to go turn the levers.

Captain Smith went to the wing cab as the lever dinged, leaning far over the side of the ship, trying to see any damage below. Murdoch glanced back at me, his jaw clenched, burning with nerves and humiliation. I wished I could offer him some sort of strength, but I knew I looked the same.

"Find the carpenter," Smith said to Murdoch, now staring into the well deck, where fallen ice was scattered everywhere. Jack, Rose, and a few others were staring over the starboard side, trying to get a glimpse of the berg. "Get him to sound the ship."

"Yes, sir!" Murdoch brushed past me, his shaking hand at my elbow in a quick squeeze.

"Miss Wallace," Smith didn't turn towards me as he spoke. "Fetch your cousin. You'd best bring him on deck."

"Yes, sir," I said, and made myself put one foot in front of the other as I hurried from the bridge.


	17. Sixteen: Wallace

Author's Note: A few notes today for my lovely reviewers (thank you so much!) and readers. First, you should probably know: after this chapter, there will be two more chapters, and then the epilogue. This chapter and the next will be longer than usual, so I hope you don't mind! Another thing to note: Looking at it from this side of history, it's easy to forget that no one immediately thought the ship was in any real danger. Inconvenienced, yes. In need of repairs, absolutely. But until the historically correct equivalent of that conversation in the chartroom, no one had any idea how bad it really was. Also, I've never had to write the same scene in two different stories before. That was strange. Actually, this whole chapter felt a bit strange. I like the next one much better, as far as sinkings go. As a final note, things have, as they say, gotten real. We're down to the final few chapters, folks. Thanks for sticking with me this long. Enjoy, and review! Until next week.

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Chapter Sixteen: Wallace  
April 14, 1912  
23:55

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As I came out of the stairwell on A-Deck I nearly smashed into Thomas, which didn't do much for my already-frazzled nerves—nor his, apparently, as he almost dropped the bundle of rolled-up blueprints under his arm. He'd already been on his way up to the bridge.

"They sent you to find me, didn't they?" he asked quietly, pulling me back in the direction I'd come.

"Yes." I nodded, stomach turning over. The resignation in his face was almost more terrifying than the entire last fifteen minutes had been.

"Do you know what—"

"An iceberg," I explained, hurrying along with him. "It came out of nowhere. Scraped all up the port side. Captain Smith shut down the engines until we can figure out what's going on."

"Jesus, Ellen. Has John Hutchinson been sent for?"

"Yes, Murdoch went to find him."

"Did they close the watertight—"

"Soon as she hit." I hated seeing this, his fearful eyes, neither of us knowing how badly the ship was wounded. When we rounded into the wheelhouse, all the lights were on, Moody and Hitchens speaking hastily to Wilde (who was still getting his tie on) and Quartermaster Rowe.

Thomas was just beginning to ask questions when Murdoch and a man who I presumed to be Hutchinson appeared.

"Where's the captain?" Hutchinson said tersely, while I studied Murdoch. He looked a bit better—less panicked, but still in shock. He'd looked for me as soon as he'd stepped into the wheelhouse, and now our eyes couldn't let each other's go.

"Gone to get dressed," Wilde explained. "Mr. Murdoch, did you explain—"

"I've already sounded her," Hutchinson said, eyes wide. He was sweating. "It's not good."

"Mr. Hutchinson." Captain Smith stepped into the wheelhouse, back in his officer's coat and hat. "Follow me. Mr. Andrews, Mr. Wilde, if you please." They headed toward the boat deck, then toward the forward well deck.

"Now what?" Moody said uncertainly.

"Mr. Moody," said Murdoch, stepping forward. "Go get Mr. Bride in the wireless room up to speed, then go and wake Mr. Phillips. We may need them both."

"Yes, sir!" Moody hurried off.

Murdoch looked about. "As for the rest of us, we stay put so they'll know where to find us when they need us."

Hitchens and Rowe went to peer into the night on the bridge, which left Murdoch and I standing in the brightly-lit wheelhouse, looking at each other helplessly. But I couldn't just stand there, and I wanted to talk to Murdoch discreetly, so I turned and went into the chartroom, hoping he'd follow. One of the star charts was across the map table; I leaned over it, not really absorbing anything, just taking deep breaths to try to calm my nerves. _It's not good_, Hutchinson had said. What the hell did that mean?

"Ellen?" Murdoch's voice moments later, soft as he came up beside me.

He still looked slightly dazed, as though he'd been punched in the face. My heart ached for him. "Will." We stared down at the chart together. "I'm sorry—"

"Bloody stupid," he muttered. "How did we not see it? If we'd been going any slower—if we'd only been a tenth of a degree off our heading—"

"It isn't your fault," I murmured, resisting the urge to pull him into my arms. "There were a hundred reasons—maybe they didn't see the signal in time in the engine room, maybe Fleet and Lee weren't paying enough attention, maybe—"

"My God." He ran a hand over his face. "Her maiden voyage. We'll have to return to Belfast for sure. And. . . and. . ."

I knew what he was thinking, what he was too humble to actually say—his career might be over. The White Star Line might keep him on out of loyalty, but he'd never be a captain. Would they even let him stay on as first officer? "Will. . ." was all I could say, my eyes stinging.

"The look on your cousin's face." He braced his hands on the chart table, bowed his head. "I've gone and roughed up his ship on her first trip out."

"He won't even blame you," I tried to assure him, and discreetly covered his hand with mine. "He's not like that. No one will. There were far too many factors for it to be your fault."

"What the devil is going on?" came a new voice from the wheelhouse; I turned to see Bruce Ismay in a fur-lined bathrobe, striped silk pajamas and red maroon carpet slippers. He was barking at Moody, who had returned, and Hitchens, who had followed him in. "The engines have stopped!"

"Mr. Ismay." I stepped outside the chartroom, Will following me.

"Miss Wallace." Ismay approached me, frowning, mustache twitching. "Mr. Murdoch. What in the blazes—"

"We've struck an iceberg," Murdoch said, calm once again, folding his hands behind his back. "The captain, Mr. Andrews, Mr. Wilde and the carpenter have gone to inspect the damage. They'll be back shortly with a report."

"An iceberg?" His eyebrows shot up in surprise as he stared between us and the others, our grim faces confirming it. "But visibility is clear tonight. It's an _iceberg_. How could we possibly have—"

"We saw it too late," Murdoch explained, clearly wanting Ismay off the bridge. I didn't blame him—much as I loved the White Star Line president, Ismay's incredulity would only get in the way until we figured out what was going on.

"And icebergs aren't always stark white, you know," Moody spoke up. "Especially not if they've broken off from a floe lately. They only become white after a few weeks at sea. Before that, you can hardly see them."

Ismay's brows had finally lowered. "But you should have been able to—"

"Evening, all," Fourth Officer Boxhall returned to the wheelhouse, a bit out of breath, looking around at all of us. "Captain Smith had me down in steerage to check for damage, but I didn't see anything."

"Mr. Ismay." Captain Smith, Thomas, Mr. Wilde and Mr. Hutchinson had returned, Thomas leading the way as they brushed past me into the chartroom, Murdoch falling into step behind them.

I gulped. The hard, hollow look in Thomas's eyes, the way he didn't even see me—something was wrong. Something was _very_ wrong.

"Most unfortunate, captain," Ismay was saying, following them in as Murdoch turned and went to sweep the star chart off the table. I stood just outside the doorway, wondering if I should've been elsewhere, but it was Murdoch and Thomas in there, and if they needed me, there I'd be. Behind me, Moody, Boxhall, Hitchens, and Quartermaster Rowe were waiting.

Thomas unfurled a blueprint across the table, reaching for a paperweight molded like an Olympic-class ship. Ismay was pacing slightly behind Thomas and the captain. Murdoch took a few steps back so that he was next to the door, watching them. "Water," Thomas was saying to the captain, gesturing to the diagram, "Fourteen feet above the keel in ten minutes. And in the forepeak. And in all three holds. And in boiler room six."

It was like someone tipped a bucket of ice water over my head, the dread that I suddenly choked on, the disbelief that fought over it. _Five compartments_.

"That's right, sir," Hutchinson confirmed, breathless.

Ismay paused in his pacing to snap, "When can we get underway, dammit?"

"That's five compartments!" Thomas snapped back, then glanced back at Captain Smith. "She can stay afloat with the first four compartments breached, but not five. _Not five_." He traced a hand over the diagram that I could see shaking even from here. My eyes stung again. "As she goes down by the head, water will spill over the tops of the bulkheads. . . at E Deck. . ."

I couldn't see Murdoch's face, but he reached up and braced a hand on the doorframe, the weight of it hitting him, too. On impulse, no longer caring who saw, I reached up to cover his hand with my own; his fingers took mine tightly and didn't let go.

". . . from one, to the next," Thomas was saying, "Back, and back. There's no stopping it."

"The pumps," Smith said, not ready to believe it. "If we opened the outer doors—"

"The pumps buy you time," Thomas said, voice catching, "but minutes only. From this moment, no matter what we do. . . _Titanic _will founder."

I swallowed hard, the stunned silence unbearable, Murdoch's grip numbing my fingers.

"But this ship can't sink!" Ismay said indignantly.

Thomas rounded on him. "She's made of iron, sir; I assure you, she can!" He looked back to the diagram, one hand still resting on it. "And she will. 'Tis mathematical certainty."

"How much time?" Smith's voice was quiet.

While Thomas turned the figures over in his head, I released Murdoch's hand, hearing Wilde's footsteps approaching behind me. "An hour," Thomas murmured. "Two, at most."

Wilde brushed past me to stand beside Murdoch while I just stood there and trembled, staring openly at Thomas. "And how many aboard, Mr. Murdoch?" Smith asked, turning back to us now.

"Two thousand, two hundred souls on board, sir." Murdoch's voice was empty.

Captain Smith turned to Ismay, nodded slightly. "Well, I believe you may get your headlines, Mr. Ismay."

Ismay, who'd been gaping, dropped his gaze and didn't speak. Smith turned to the rest of us. "Miss Wallace," he said. "Call the others in."

I gulped, turned toward the wheelhouse where all eyes were on me and the chartroom anyway. I didn't trust my voice, so just waved them toward me.

The clock on the chartroom wall read 12:05 as the rest of us filed in, twelve people crammed into the tiny room. My shoulder was bumping Murdoch's, but I didn't dare look at his face, afraid that seeing it would obliterate the last of my fast-waning resolve.

Smith spoke heavily, but quickly. "We're taking on water by the head, and the first five compartments have been breached from the forepeak. We've little more than an hour before the whole thing goes out from under us."

The others looked stunned, but didn't speak yet. How could they? I was still trying to make myself believe it. Smith continued. "We've got to start swinging out the lifeboats and getting the passengers in them quickly as possible. Mr. Wilde, I want you to round up the crewmen on deck and start them uncovering the boats on the port and starboard sides. Mr. Hitchens and Mr. Rowe, you will go to the crew's quarters and rouse all the crewmen you can find—we'll need them to man the boats. Mr. Murdoch, you and Miss Wallace go inside and start rounding up the passengers, and get them out to the boat deck. Mr. Boxhall, if you could wake Mr. Lightoller and Mr. Pitman and bring them to the bridge. Mr. Moody, fetch the boat assignments so everyone knows where they need to be."

It was all met with murmured yes-sirs and wide eyes. "Whatever you do," Captain Smith said, looking at each of us, "whoever you tell, do it calmly. Be honest with the crew, but do _not_ give the passengers any reason to panic. Understood?"

More yes, sirs. "Good. Dismissed. And good luck."

We scattered.

.

.

"We start with the stewards." Murdoch was speaking too quickly, walking fast, and I could barely keep up with him. "The stations on each deck. Get them to spread the word among each other, then they rouse the passengers, then—"

"Hey." I trotted alongside him, trying to get a good look at him. When he'd brushed by me in the chartroom, on the way out, his face was blank, but I got the feeling it was because he was battering back a hellstorm of emotion. Not that I was much different—but it had yet to truly set in. "Will, slow down."

"We can't slow down. You heard your cousin." We rounded into the stairwell—the first steward's station was on B Deck. "An hour, two if we're lucky."

That was enough. He was so busy holding back panic that he was going nuts. And I couldn't work with him if he was going to snap at me, no matter the situation. On the landing of the empty stairwell I grabbed his arm, hard. "_Will!"_

He spun around in my grip, facing me, and for the first time I got a full-on glimpse at the guilt and horror fighting it out in him. I felt myself shrink back a bit, stunned. "Ellen." He closed his eyes, hands grasping my arms, pulling me back to him gently. "Ellen, it's my fault. It's—we can't—"

"Listen to me." Recovered, I reached up, grabbing his lapels, meeting his eyes. I could feel my lower lip trembling, but I was still in control of my emotions. I had to be. "You can't let yourself get caught up in guilt when it wasn't your fault anyway. We have a job to do. We can't panic. So—so here's what." I swallowed, bracing myself. "You have thirty seconds to fall apart. Then we get in there and tell those stewards."

Murdoch's eyes searched mine, saw I was serious, and pressed his forehead against my own. "My God," he breathed, and it was strangled; his gloved hands found my hair again. "It may not have been mine directly, but I'm officer of the watch. . . every soul on this boat is my responsibility then, and it's. . ." I fought tears as he pulled back to look at me. "We should be on deck trying to flirt without the others noticing, not—" his voice broke. "—ordering the bloody passengers up to the boat deck with Wilde fitting up those sodding lifeboats!" Shaking, he closed his eyes, taking deep breaths.

"Come on," I murmured, his hands near bruising on my arms. "Come on, Will. We can do this. I'm with you. I won't leave your side."

"I know." He kissed my forehead, then pulled back and nodded shortly a few times. Took a final deep breath. "Thank you, Ellen. Let's go." He took my hand and pulled me through the B-Deck doors.

It was quick work—we never said exactly what the problem was, only that they needed to round up the passengers and get them up to the Boat Deck quickly as possible. The stewards on duty, clearly sensing the urgency, went to round up each other and the passengers, and before long the two of us were heading back up to the deck. I could already tell that Murdoch felt better; having a job to do made it easier to take both our minds off the imminent hell.

By the time we got back outside, the noise from steam venting out of the funnels was deafening. I shouted in Murdoch's ear my intention to run back to my room and grab a whistle and another set of gloves; he followed me, thinking he'd do the same.

In my room I tore through the debris on my desk, hunting for my extra set of gloves, realizing I was going to leave it all behind. That lovely dress Thomas had spent a fortune on, the book collection I'd spent years growing—I hadn't even gotten to _Ethan Frome _and a half-dozen others. I'd planned on spending my off-hours reading more, collecting a couple more books in each city we put in to port. Now. . .

I found my spare gloves on the seat of the chair. Brushing past the half-destroyed desk, my elbow knocked the pencil cup to the floor and I cursed, the noise surprising me. I glanced down, meaning to just leave the pencils—but watched as they rolled all the way to the other side of the room to thunk gently against the wall.

I stared in horror. Those pencils were ridged. They shouldn't have gone more than a few inches.

The floor was tilted forward.

Shuddering, I fled, slamming the door behind me, running into Murdoch in the hall. "What's wrong?" he said immediately, searching my face.

"Nothing," I muttered, tucking the gloves into my pocket. "I knocked a few pencils off the desk and they just—they just rolled all the way to the other side of the wall. The deck's tilting already."

He nodded slightly, though fear flashed in his eyes. "It would, wouldn't it." He reached up to stroke down my cheek. "Come on, love. We've got get out there."

I nodded too, and kissed him, deeply as I could in just a few seconds; he returned it, his soft whimper past my lips, and then we were moving again.

Crewmen were hurrying through the wheelhouse, rushing to and fro. Moody, Boxhall, Lowe and Pitman were standing together by the forward helm, Lowe pulling on his greatcoat. Murdoch and I hurried over, steam from the funnels still drowning out everything else.

"Right," Moody was calling, looking at a clipboard, "Mr. Pitman, you'll be on the starboard side with Mr. Murdoch—Ellen, same with you. Mr. Boxhall, over on the port side, with Lights and Mr. Wilde."

"Bad idea, that," Lowe said, buttoning his coat now. "Lights'n'Wilde will rip each other's throats out."

"They might not have to," Pitman said, looking out the wheelhouse windows.

"Well, Mr. Boxhall, help them out. And Mr. Lowe, you're to be on the starboard side as well. The crewmen have their assignments; they should be in the right spot." He nodded around to us. "Good luck, gentlemen. And Ellen."

I took a good look at Boxhall and Moody as we turned away; it occurred to me that I might not see them again—at least not til this was long over. I thought longingly of my warm bunk, how it would be swimming with water soon, and wondered when I'd next get the chance to just curl up and forget all of this.

Murdoch, Pitman, Lowe and I wove our way toward the starboard side. There were now baffled passengers in bulky lifeboats milling confusedly about the deck. They seemed to be concentrated at the port side of the ship despite the fact that by now the crew were swinging out boats on both sides.

Near the wheelhouse, a flare short straight up into the sky and exploded, white lights and sparks raining down from it. Any other time I would have been mesmerized. But now, dread settled in the pit of my stomach. We were desperate enough that we were trying to signal any ship who could see us. Anyone at all. I swallowed hard, and turned back to the boat deck.

The deck looked naked, a few boats already attached to the falls as they swung out, navy-uniformed crewmen rushing about to get it done. Above the sound of steam billowing out of three funnels, Murdoch called back to us, "We start with number seven—then work our way forward!"

I nodded, the four of us setting about helping the crew of number seven. More passengers began milling about on our side, clustered against the entrance to the grand staircase, watching us work with wide, uncertain eyes. I felt that way, too, turning cranks, holding ropes, shouting to be heard. Before long the steam died off, so the clank of the cranks and squeak of the pulleys filled our ears instead. I realized after a bit that the knuckles on my right hand were throbbing; the bruise from the fight the other night was still there. That night seemed like a hundred years ago, not two days ago.

As we were just about ready to ask for orders, Captain Smith approached us, looking lost.

"Sir," Murdoch said, going to him. "We're swung out and ready. Should we begin loading?"

"Yes." He nodded, still not entirely there. "Yes, please do. Women and children first."

I helped a few crewmen wrestle the boat into lowering so that its gunwale was level with the deck. "Mr. Jewell. Mr. Hogg." Murdoch nodded to two of the crewmen, who happened to be lookouts from an earlier shift. "Man the boat. And you." He nodded to another crewman. "In. Be sure to help the women over the edge. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," they echoed together, and began climbing in.

"If we could have the women and children," Pitman called toward the crowd, but they just stood there, watching us, looking frozen in their lifebelts.

I didn't blame them. Who would want to plunge fifty feet to the sea in a tiny little boat when this glowing, seemingly steady beast was already here? "You should give it a go," Pitman said, coming to stand beside me. "You're a woman. Perhaps they'll listen to you."

I nodded; he had a point. Gulping, I straightened my hat, and then stepped forward a bit, closer to the crowd, trying to meet the eyes of the women. "Please," I said, "If the women and children could come forward, we'll help you into the boats. You _must_ come forward."

One of the women set her jaw and stepped forward, nodding, bringing who appeared to be her mother with her. Another woman followed.

"What about—what about the newlyweds?" called Lowe. Looking at the knot of passengers, I realized that a lot of them did seem to be young couples, clutching each other.

Murdoch came up beside me, said, "Yes, please, let's get all the young couples into the boat. Now."

"Yes," I said, gesturing at them all, "Please come forward. We'll take as many as we can."

One of the couples came forward, looking at me and the officers as though they expected a pummeling, but let us help them into the boat. Another couple followed them, and at last there was a bit of steady traffic over the rail, young women and a few young men with them. Older men helped their wives forward, but didn't try to come into the boat themselves. It was sobering. Once their wives were onboard, they simply turned and disappeared into the crowd.

The boat was halfway full when suddenly, from near the grand entrance doors, I heard—well, it had to be—

"Is that _Wedding Dance_?" Pitman muttered from my left.

"I think so," I said, both of us staring at each other in surprise. "The band must be on deck." They were; other passengers were turning to look. It was surreal, hearing the charming waltz while the barely-contained panic simmered around us.

After a few minutes it was obvious that no others were willing to climb aboard, so Murdoch called, "Prepare to lower!"

There were hardly thirty people in the boat. What else could we do? No one else was stepping forward, and this left room for the boat to come back.

"Lower away!" Murdoch called to the deck hands on either side, and the pulleys began squeaking as they released the ropes. He was standing right on the edge. "Left and right together; steady lads!"

I hung onto the right davit frame, leaning partway over the side to look down at the boat. God, it was a long way down to the ocean. Wait—the lifeboat seemed to tip, and screams drifted up—

"Hold the left!" I cried, breathlessly watching the left side dip dangerously.

"Right side only!" Murdoch shouted to the crew. "Right side only, hold the left side—" It began to even out. "—and lower away evenly, both sides together!"

Breathing a sigh of relief, I watched the boat continue its descent, the crewmen at the pulleys now far more conscious of their work. At last it touched down, and the crewmen below disconnected from the lines. The first boat away.

I turned back to the deck, and saw that the crowd on this side was still depressingly small. We'd never fill another boat like this. I stepped over to Will as he and Pitman began moving toward the next boat. "I'm going to see if I can get more people over here," I said. "We won't fill any boats this way."

"Right," he said, squeezing my arm. "Go on, take Bert with you."

Pitman lifted an eyebrow at Murdoch's affections, but nodded and followed me to the port side.

The crowds were far more dense on this side. I could see Lightoller trying to help people into the boats, Wilde shouting at the crewmen and blowing his whistle. "If you please!" Pitman called to the passengers, trying to get their attention. "There's plenty more boats on the starboard side!"

"Yes, come along!" I waved them forward. A few of the passengers started at us like we were out of our minds, but a few followed.

There was no mistaking the relief in Murdoch's face when Pitman and I returned, more passengers in tow. He was relieved to see the passengers, certainly, but the way his eyes lingered on mine, his hand briefly at my side—he needed me there as much as I needed him.

We must have had forty occupants and no more women when Pitman and Murdoch looked at each other and shrugged, then at me, and I shrugged, too, and then we started letting single men aboard. At one point I heard someone new shouting for more passengers, and glanced back to see Bruce Ismay, coming to join one of the crewmen by the falls, waving passengers forward. He'd cut right in front of where Lowe had one foot in and one foot out of the boat, helping people board.

"Come on, then!" Ismay called, waving people forward wildly. "Step aboard!"

I couldn't believe it. I'd known Ismay for years, and I'd never seen him so insane. "Come on, Bruce," I said, touching his shoulder, gesturing off to the side. "You're in the way."

"Got to get them all lowered!" he said, all but ignoring me. "Come along, ladies!"

I glancing up at Lowe, but the fifth officer rolled his eyes, took a step back, and helped from there.

"I think that's it," I said to Murdoch at last, who nodded, seeing that there was nearly no one else about. He then looked at the two crewmen in the boat, then back to me.

Stomach falling away, I realized exactly what he was thinking. I stepped forward quickly and said, "Don't even think about it. Not yet."

Murdoch bit his lip, clearly wanting to put me in the boat and wondering whether it was worth it to fight me.

"Please," I whispered. "Don't make me leave you yet."

He nodded, tried to smile weakly, then looked around. "Mr. Pitman? Jump in with the other crewmen."

Pitman's mustache twitched, looking between both of us. "Sir. . ."

"That's an order, Bert," Murdoch said softly.

Pitman nodded, mouth in a thin line. He clearly wanted to stay and help, but held out his hand to me, then Murdoch. "Good-bye, then," Pitman said, meeting our eyes intently. "Good luck."

"And to you, old friend." Murdoch released Pitman's hand. Pitman climbed over the railing, and we started lowering.

I stood by the falls, waiting, listening to Ismay shouting _Lower away!_, just one thought on my mind: _Who tells the first officer to jump in_?

There were many more people by the time we were ready to lower boat No. 3, when we had to really begin separating the women from the men—including women who didn't want to leave the ship or their husbands.

"Come on, miss," I said as the woman nearest to me sobbed, trying to hang onto her husband, despite the fact that he was pushing her to get in. "This way. We'll help you." I could hear my voice shaking even as I tried to smile encouragingly.

"Go on, darling," the man was saying. "It's perfectly safe."

They buried themselves in a kiss and an embrace, and when I looked away, I found Murdoch meeting my eyes from over by the other davit. He looked about like I felt, and I could only stare back helplessly. Neither of us wanted this. I at last passed the woman over the gunwale to one of the crewmen, and her husband latched onto my shoulder. "Take care of her," he said, and disappeared into the crowd.

Staring after him, I had to force myself to get back to work, trying to ignore a pair of sobbing children already in No. 3 with their mother. I smiled at the next woman, a girl a few years younger than me. "Come on miss, you'll be all right. Into the boat. There you are." I was wondering when Murdoch and I would have to leave each other. And whether or not I'd actually obey his order.

"I can't ruddy do this," I whispered as he came to stand by me, the deckhands preparing to lower. "I can't force them apart from each other." Because I kept seeing the two of us in every one of those couples. And I was nowhere near ready to let go of Murdoch, no matter how fast the boat was slipping from beneath us.

"Throw them in if you have to," he murmured. "We _must _save as many as we can. Buck up, Ellen. You're brilliant with those women."

I tried nodding, and he moved away. "Ready on the left?" he called.

Ismay, who'd been encouraging passengers aboard No. 3, went to stand beside Murdoch and started wind-milling his arms, shouting "Lower away!"

I stared, rather wanting to kill him, because I couldn't make him go away and he was only being distracting. I could tell that Murdoch thought the same thing, but neither of us were about to pull the president of the line out of the way.

Lowe didn't mind, though. "If you get the hell out of the way," he exploded, "I could bloody do something!"

Ismay stepped back, surprised into silence, and didn't say much after that, but the passengers were staring at Lowe, absolutely aghast. I snorted, glad of Lowe's rambunctiousness, and clapped him on the shoulder. He nodded back, exasperated, watching Ismay go stand to the side as the boat went down. "Another minute and I would've said it," I told Lowe.

"Bloody hell!" Lowe said appreciatively, shaking his head. "He's lost it completely."

"Absolutely," I started, but that's when two men jumped past me, toward the half-lowered lifeboat. "_Hey_—!"

Lowe made a grab for them, but they jumped straight over the edge and into the boat. "_Oi!" _I shouted down at them, livid. "_You wankers! Get out of there_!"

But there was no way they could, as the passengers down below were still trying to get out from under the men who'd jumped, all shouting in the confusion.

I straightened, adrenaline coursing through me, feeling slightly hysterical. "The both of them," I said. "Wankers. There's a word everyone should use more often." Glancing over, I saw Murdoch staring at me, a surprised look on his face.

"They're a mite worse than wankers," Lowe grumbled from behind me.

"What's that _look _about?" I asked Murdoch.

"Ellen," Murdoch said, still surprised, "I think I might be in love with you."

I blinked at him. He was smiling slightly. "You—"

"_What_?" Lowe was staring between the two of us.

"Mr. Murdoch!" came a familiar voice; I spun to see Thomas heading our way. From his expression, it was clear that Murdoch's declaration and Lowe's surprise would need to wait. Lowe busied himself at the falls.

"What's this?" Thomas demanded of us, eyes on the boats rowing away. "These lifeboats are nowhere near full!"

"They won't board," I explained, defensive of Murdoch. "None of them want to leave the ship. And we thought if there's room, they can come back for the ones left in the water."

"But the water's at freezing," Thomas said, eyebrows slanted upwards. All the mirth I felt at Murdoch's words had faded. "They won't last twenty minutes in it. You've got to fill the boats as much as you can!"

"She's right, Thomas," Murdoch said, coming up beside me. He took my hand in his. "They won't bloody go. Believe us when we say we're doing all we can."

"Try picking them up and throw them in," Thomas said, then looked down at our hands. Then up at us. "What're—"

"Long story," I said sheepishly, Murdoch and I glancing at one another. "I was going to tell you later."

Thomas was surprised, the first smile I'd seen all night ghosting over his lips. "What, you spent two days griping at each other and now you're—holding hands, and flirting?"

"Quite," I told him, then reached out to squeeze his shoulder. "We'll get as many in as we can, Thomas."

He nodded. "Keep trying. I'm going to go help."

Murdoch turned to me as Thomas left. His eyes were so steady, compared to the confusion around us. "Holding up all right?"

I couldn't help but smile a bit, thinking of his words a few minutes ago. "Yes. Fine. You?"

"Bit warm." He was right; inside my greatcoat I could feel myself sweating.

"Are you two—are you—" Lowe was back, staring confusedly at us.

"Mr. Lowe," Murdoch said, putting a hand on Lowe's shoulder, "You should go and check the other side. See if they need help over there. That's where the crowds are."

Lowe knew a dismissal when he heard one. "Yes, sir," he said, wanting to know more but well aware of his duty. He turned to go.

And I remembered something. "Wait!" I dashed forward as he pulled up short, his curious gray eyes searching mine. I said, "A tablespoon each of cinnamon, ginger, and nutmeg when you're making a big pot. And a dash of cardamom if you have it."

For a moment Lowe looked confused, then I saw the realization, and he turned to grip my shoulders, his jaw clenched. "I won't bloody remember that," he said, "Because you're making a pot of it the instant we're rescued. Understand?"

I nodded mutely, wishing I could truly believe him, trying to memorize his face. "Of course," I managed. "We—we'll need it. I plan on getting in at least a dozen more fights before they dismiss me."

"I should hope so." He squeezed my shoulder, nodded to Murdoch and then me, and I lost him in the crowds.

"Come on," Murdoch said, waving me toward boat No. 1, where the crowd waiting to board was thin. "You know what I think?" He raised his voice so the crew around us could hear. "From now on, if we haven't a large crowd, we're letting anyone board."

"Agree," I nodded, not willing to watch another couple tear at each other as they were pulled apart. "Good thinking."

"Aha!" We turned to see a wealthy gentleman in an overcoat approaching, two well-dressed women on his arms. "May we get in, sir?"

"Please do," Murdoch said, waving at the boat. "Plenty of room."

I was helping the women in when a stout, mustachioed man marched straight up to Murdoch and started complaining. "This is absurd," he snapped. "You're terrifying the passengers. How could you possibly believe those boats are any safer than the ship? Just whose orders are you following?"

Murdoch wasn't about to take a verbal pummeling. He simply smiled. "Go ahead and come aboard, if you like."

The man glanced at Murdoch, then me, then the crewmen—and tried to jump in. Except instead of a jump, it was a half-hearted skip. He ended up rolling over the edge of the boat so awkwardly that I couldn't suppress a giggle, and even Murdoch laughed at that, coming to stand beside me as the man fell into the bottom of the boat. "That's the funniest thing I've seen all night," he said.

I hadn't realized exactly how much I'd needed to hear that laugh, but I grinned back, a flicker of hope surfacing. _I think I might be in love with you, too_, I wanted to say, but I couldn't summon the courage. "We have great timing, you and I," I said finally.

"We have _terrible _timing," he argued, sobering up a bit. "We could have been doing this for days."

"Yes, or we could have said nothing at all, and we'd still be wondering."

"That's true." He kissed my forehead. I'd stopped caring whether anyone saw anything, and he seemed to have been on the same page.

We'd no sooner gotten that boat mostly full when an ensemble of Lightoller, Mr. Wilde, and the captain came up to us. The look on the captain's face reminded me of the dazed look I'd seen on Murdoch's face earlier. He was in shock. "Mr. Murdoch," Lights said tersely, "Miss Wallace. Come with us?"

Murdoch and I traded glances. "Mr. Edkins, take over for a moment," Murdoch told one of the crewmen, and I followed the senior officers as they stepped away.

"Where are we going, then?" Murdoch asked Lightoller. Another flare rocket shot into the sky from the wheelhouse.

It was Wilde who answered as the flare popped overhead, sparks and smoke streaking downward. "Arms locker," he said. "We've got to get the officers guns if we're to keep these crowds under control."

"Is that really necessary—" Murdoch began.

"If you want to get as many passengers off this ship alive as you can," Captain Smith spoke up, looking back, "then yes, Mr. Murdoch. It's necessary."

Murdoch looked at me doubtfully and I shrugged, just as unconvinced. But we knew better than to argue, so we followed behind them in silence, our gloved fingers tangled tightly at our sides.


	18. Seventeen: Wallace

Author's Note: As always, thank you so, so much for your kind words—they mean so much to me. As for technical notes, damn—I seem to have skipped some key things in the last chapter. A few boats. Alas. Let's roll with it. Also, I know the timing for everything here is screwed up, and they wouldn't have time to do some of these things but, well, you know. Fiction.

On a serious note, this bit is one of the darker things I've ever written. Murdoch and Ellen are just two (mostly) ordinary people caught up in an extraordinary situation and bound by duty. They aren't heroes; they aren't special. They just have to keep from panicking longer than everyone else. I've never had to write this kind of psychology before—Carrie and all my other heroines always assume they'll make it, that they'd fight for it if it killed them. Here, our protagonists are trapped, and know there was never much hope to begin with. They can't fend for themselves because they have a duty to fend for others first, and by the time their consciences will let them try, it'll be too late. Dunno if I could have done this story justice six years ago. Dunno if I've done it now. It's tough putting these characters through these situations, but that's drama, isn't it? Love to all of you for sticking with me this long. Please review, and remember, we still have one more chapter and an epilogue. Thanks, friends. And stay tuned— that next chapter will be up in just a few days, instead of a week. Until then.

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Chapter Seventeen: Wallace

April 15, 1912

01:30

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.

"Guns," explained Captain Smith as Wilde sorted through his keys in the chartroom. "I want each of you to have one. And Mr. Wilde, if you could hand one off to Mr. Lowe and Mr. Moody, I would be much obliged."

Boxhall had already gone, then, as had Pitman. I folded my arms, glad for the brief break from the cold, still unconvinced as to whether we needed weapons.

"I'm inclined to agree with Will," Mr. Lightoller said, looking disgusted. "We haven't had any problems keeping order so far."

"Not yet," Wilde said, getting down on a knee to turn the key in the lock. "But once the passengers start truly understanding what's going on, you might need it." He opened the doors and started taking Webleys out of their racks. He passed one to the captain, a reluctant Lightoller, a grim-faced Murdoch, and finally me, though with some hesitation. "Ever shot a gun before?"

"Of course I've ruddy well—" I remembered that he was my superior officer, and the captain was here. "—yes sir, of course." I took it from his hand. It was cold and heavy, dark metal shining up at me in the lights. I gulped, and looked at Murdoch. He looked about as convinced as I did.

"Be careful," Wilde said, handing up tiny boxes of bullets now. "Use them only if you must."

I took a box of bullets, which didn't rattle—the contents more clinked and clicked—but couldn't make myself load them. Murdoch, under the captain's gaze, loaded his gun, as did Wilde and the captain, but Lightoller and I pocketed ours. I'd chuck my box of bullets over the side the instant we were back on deck.

"Come on, then," Murdoch said, nodding at them all. "Time to get back."

I glanced at the clock in the wheelhouse on the way out—it was 1:31 in the morning, nearly two hours since we'd struck the berg, and here we were, still afloat. I couldn't believe how much had happened since then, and followed Murdoch mutely. After a moment, trotting past the crowds, he glanced back at me, and reached out silently to take my hand.

Wishing we weren't wearing gloves, I tightened my fingers around his despite the bruise on my knuckles, and he returned the squeeze. "They should have 13 nearly loaded by now," Murdoch said. "We'll finish with 13, then 15. Then we'll come back for the collapsibles." I nodded mutely, too busy beating back panic to answer. It felt like we were walking uphill.

Moody was already at No. 13 when we burst through the crowd at the boat. It was full to bursting, and Moody looked haggard, his voice raw as the three of us tried to push passengers back. "Excellent work, Mr. Moody," Murdoch said, looking at the boat, the assembled crewmen. "Take it down, then head portside. Mr. Wilde will be looking for you."

Moody nodded with a "yes, sir," and turned to the crewmen. "Ready to lower?" he called, while Murdoch, nearly stumbling on the strength of the crowd, pulled a few crewmen from the davits to help with crowd control. Then we headed for No. 15—which was nearly impossible, as the crowd was so thick.

At the front, crewmen were trying to help women and children onboard, while the crowd pressed in around them, shouting and trying to come aboard. Looking around at the panicked faces, struggling to keep up with Murdoch as he bodily shoved his way through, I began to wonder if guns weren't such a bad idea. This was the last boat on this side, apart from the collapsibles, and this crowd knew it. My hand throbbed as I pushed people out of the way.

I watched Murdoch take a deep breath and let out the loudest bellow yet, his roughened Scottish bur raising over the commotion: "_Stay back, you lot! It's women and children first!"_

Some of them stepped back, surprised, and that gave us the advantage we needed to finally get to the front. Looking around, I was impressed—the boat was pretty damn near full, about as full as 13 had been, and I didn't see any more women around. Except for the one headed toward us through the crowd with her husband. "Let her through!" I shouted, trying to reach for her as her husband helped manhandle her to the front.

As a crewman and I helped pull her up, I realized she was nearly screaming, sobbing as she tried to hang onto her husband, fighting him the whole way. "For God's sake!" the man cried desperately. Horrified, I couldn't move. I couldn't separate them. "It's your last chance. _Go_!"

She just hung onto his jacket and wept, blonde hair askew, shivering in a pathetically thin coat. "Come on," I tried to say, but it came out as a whisper. "Please get in."

Murdoch was beside me, mouth in a hard line, and he pulled the woman away from her husband, who helped pushed her toward the boat as two of the crewmen reached to help her in, where she collapsed to a seat, covered her eyes, and wept.

Her husband looked at me and Murdoch, nodded his wide-eyed thanks, and melted back into the crowd. I turned to one of the crewmen, thinking I'd trade places with him as he let the rope down. If I didn't distract myself, I'd be sick.

"Prepare to lower!" Murdoch called to the crewmen, then stepped back over to me, his eyes set. "Ellen, you know what I'm about to ask you."

The nausea left; I felt my hands latch onto his greatcoat, in the crooks of his arms. "Not yet," I said through my teeth.

"Ellen," he said, hands coming up to grasp my elbows, "After this, there's only two—"

"_Not yet_," I repeated, heart breaking under his stare, taking a deep breath. "I won't. There's plenty of crewmen left to man the boats. I'm not leaving you."

His jaw clenched, but he nodded. "All right. All right. Not yet." He went to the crewmen at the falls, held his arms up, and stumbled again from the force of the crowd. "_Stay back! _Lower away! Steady, now!"

Suddenly I remembered that boat No. 13 had started down barely a minute ago.

"Gerroff!" I shoved a well-dressed man out of my way, heading for the davit at No. 15's left, grabbed on, and looked over the side. No. 13 was still peddling around the side of the ship, clearly trying to get their oar situation sorted out. The stream of water from the pumps had made them drift directly into the path of the already-overloaded No. 15.

Dread made my breath come short; I looked up toward the crowd. "_Murdoch!_" I shouted, but could barely be heard over the noise of the mob and Murdoch's own shouts to lower as he watched it go down. He couldn't see Boat 13 from where he was, and he and the crewmen were too busy fighting people back to notice me.

"_Murdoch_!" I shouted again, and dropped from the davit to the deck, carelessly grabbing onto men's arms to pull myself toward him. The bruise on my knuckles throbbed in painful protest. I heard screams from below just as I reached Murdoch, shouted in his ear, "Stop lowering! Boat 13's below 15!"

He realized what was happening and frantically waved the crewmen at the pulleys off. "_Hold the lines_!" he called. "_Hold the left and right!" _The crewmen noticed him waving, shouted, and pulled up short.

I heaved a sigh of relief, wiping sweat from my brow, watching 15 pull to a stop while No. 13 got itself sorted out. We waited, pushing people people back, men shouting to try to get past us. Exhausted, I could only keep pushing back. Men were starting to jump into the sea, some swinging from the falls of lifeboats already rowing away.

At last No. 13 propelled itself away, and we could finish sending No. 15 below. The crowd began to realize that they really weren't going to get a seat on No. 15, and began to break apart. When 15 finally touched water, Murdoch turned to me, nodding towards the stern. "Collapsibles," he said, and moved away, beckoning me to follow him, taking my hand as we began to weave our way through the dispersing crowd.

"Mr. Murdoch!" came another voice; I looked over and felt a flash of anger as I saw Caledon Hockley, the ass from dinner the other night, fall into step beside Will.

"Mr. Hockley," Murdoch said, bitterness in his voice as he all but ignored Hockley. I felt a surge of fondness for Murdoch, and squeezed his hand. "You two!" Murdoch called to two crewmen. "With me, now!"

Hockley glanced darkly at me, no doubt remembering my rudeness, but his words were for Murdoch. "I'm a businessman, as you know—"

And that's when I saw Thomas in the distance, heading our direction and drifting toward the first-class entrance as though he was in a trance.

"Be right back," I said quickly in Murdoch's ear, but his hand tightened in mine, pulling me up short.

"Where—" he began, fear flickering in his eyes.

"Just want to make sure Thomas is all right," I said, keeping one eye on my cousin, terror turning over in my gut. "I'll be with you in just a moment. I promise."

"Ex_cuse_ me," Hockley snapped, glaring at me.

"Just a _moment_," Murdoch all but snarled at him, and turned toward me. "All right. Be careful. Hurry back."

I kissed his cheek and then left his side, feeling oddly empty as I hurried toward Thomas, music from the band growing louder as I neared them. I caught up with Thomas just outside the first-class entrance at A-Deck. "Thomas!" I called, and he jumped, looking toward me, taking a moment to focus. I stared at him, pulling him out of the way of passengers. I was stunned at the change in his demeanor. He'd gone from urgently helping to just. . . defeated, searching my eyes, as though I could rescue him from everything. "Thomas, where are you going?"

Now standing still, he reached out and took my hands, gathered them together in his. "You were always brave, Ellen," he said quietly.

My breath caught as I stared back. This was surreal. This wasn't happening. The band playing merrily beside us, the tilting deck beneath our feet, the night sky overhead—the acceptance of death already in his eyes. _It couldn't be happening_. "Thomas," I started, choking back horror. "You—what do you mean—"

"After Stephen died, you made it all on your own." He looked like he might cry. I'd never heard him speak this way, was used to his easy smile friendly wisdom. Not the hollow acceptance of a man who's given up. "And now you're a junior officer and it's all being taken away from you, and you're still fighting."

"Thomas," I said tightly, voice shaking, "What the hell are you doing? Look, if you come with me, there's still collapsibles left. We could get you—" He was already shaking his head. "Thomas—_please_."

He pulled my hands to his chest. "There was never any other plan. Please, Ellen. Get back to Will. He needs you."

That was it, then. He was going to stay. He was going back inside to wait it out. "You can't," I said stupidly.

"Ellen—"

"_No_!" I heard myself shout it, wrenched my hands free. "You can't! What the hell is wrong with you? You've got to fight for it. What about Helen?" He closed his eyes, tilted his head away. "_What about Elizabeth?_"

Thomas was shaking his head again. "Good-bye, Ellen." He leaned to kiss my forehead, and I could see his heart breaking through his eyes. "May you live long enough to forgive me." He pulled away, his eyes on mine for one long last look, and then he disappeared into the bright entryway.

I stood there, watching him go, not even registering the crowds passing by, the band thumping out Offenbach. Rage and disbelief pounded through me. How could he give up? How could he just abandon his family? _Because he could never live with himself if he left the ship_, whispered the part of me that understood him perfectly. _He's poured his entire life into her, and they need each other_.

Clenching my fists, knuckles throbbing worse than ever, I turned and headed for collapsible C.

There was hardly a crowd at all near the wheelhouse and the collapsibles. C was already hooked up to the falls, gunwale level with the deck, and Murdoch and a few crewmen were loading anyone on they could find. Even Ismay had returned, helping people board. When I approached, Murdoch turned to see me, and the relief he obviously felt was almost instantly replaced by confusion. "What—" he started.

"Thomas is staying," I found myself saying bitterly, wondering just how infuriated I looked. "He just—he just _gave up_, Will. He's back inside. Waiting it out."

Murdoch reached to grasp my arm, sadness etched in his face. "You're certain?"

"Beyond a doubt." I gritted my teeth, glancing around for something to do, then noticed Hockley hovering back by the bridge, waiting. "What's he still hanging around for?" I looked back at Murdoch, but then caught a flash of color and looked down. "And—and why is your pocket full of bills?"

His jaw clenched. "I thought—"

Then I put it all together, and anger was replaced by my heart crashing to the ground. "Will, please tell me he didn't try to bribe you. Please tell me you didn't accept—"

"I didn't even say anything." He lowered his voice, stepping even closer. "I just thought—I just thought that maybe—if we get out of this—we could use it. We'll both be out of jobs, at least for a little while, and we. . ." he trailed off, looking at me pleadingly.

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath. I had to keep from getting angrier. Murdoch clearly thought he was doing the right thing, and besides, there were more important things to worry about. "It's all right," I said, grasping his shoulder, looking up at him. "It was a nice thought. Besides, bastard has more than enough cash as it is. Let's help him out, hey?"

He nodded, relieved, squeezing my hands, and we got back to work helping the few straggling passengers board. Even Ismay began to endear himself to me again, as he was so sweet with everyone he helped into the boat that you couldn't not like him. He was still pushy, but given the circumstances, it wasn't a negative quality. "Thanks for your help," I told him at one point, as we waited for passengers to hurry up. "We really needed it."

"Of course," he said shortly, still caught up in it. "Of course."

The boat was nearly full. "Anyone else?" Murdoch was calling up through the wheelhouse and back through the deck, but no one was headed our way.

"All aboard, Mr. Murdoch!" Ismay called.

"Anyone else, then?" Murdoch turned back, and I realized he was looking toward Hockley, now with his manservant, who hadn't yet boarded, but Hockley was suddenly looking lost, frozen. "Anyone else?" Murdoch repeated, but they didn't move. He turned to the crew, called, "Stand by the falls!"

Hockley hesitated, then he and his manservant strode away.

"And good riddance," I muttered, going to stand next to one of the crewmen to help with the ropes, glancing back at Murdoch for orders.

His eyes were already on mine, his expression unreadable. Then he said, "Get in."

I realized that I still didn't want to go. Well, no—wanted to. Every instinct was screaming at me to get as far away from this nightmare-hell as fast as possible. But I couldn't. Not with Murdoch still here. Not when I could still help. When I knew my duty. "I. . ."

"You're going with them." His voice shook, but he was trying to appear nonchalant as he gestured to the crewmen in the boat.

My mouth was dry, but my eye was caught by a guy hurrying up to the collapsible. I helped him in. "I won't."

"I'm not joking this time," Murdoch said, moving closer to me, not looking away. He lowered his voice. "_Get. In_."

I'd never seen him so serious, but I gathered my courage and lifted my chin. "No."

It was horrible to refuse him, but worse when he looked so disappointed. "Ellen," he said, reaching up to cradle my cheek, eyes pleading. "You can't wait any longer. This boat needs you, and I still need to help get Collapsible A off the roof."

I swallowed hard, reaching up to cover his hand with mine. "But I'm not leaving you here, and I'm not leaving the ship when I can still help. There's plenty of crewmen left." I turned away. "So don't even try."

"Don't make me order you." His voice was still close, murmured, and I turned back to him, his gaze willing me to give in. "Please—get into the boat!"

I felt my breath catch, the beginning of a suppressed sob, wishing he would just let it go, just let me stay with him. "Will, I don't want to say no to you. I. . . I don't—"

"Damn it, Ellen," he gritted, so serious that I froze. "Get into that lifeboat. _That is an order._"

My hands shook; I clenched them into fists, looked him in his eyes. "_No_."

He straightened, drew back, and his voice became distant. "You are disobeying the order of your superior officer."

"Of course I am." I snapped, heading back to the falls, heart hammering.

"As this is a period of crisis, if you do not obey it, you are subject to court-martial."

"Excellent." I helped another man into the boat.

Murdoch latched a hand onto my forearm. "You will be dishonorably discharged from your position and sent home!"

I wrenched my arm free, rage from moments ago resurfacing, glaring up at him. "Then so. Bloody. _Bet it_. I'm not going _anywhere_."

His eyes bored into mine, anger and frustration and hopelessness all at once. "God _damn_ it, Ellen," he breathed, and pulled away to call orders to someone else. "You there, into the boat! Prepare to lower!"

I was trembling violently, hardly able to breathe in the cold air as I moved to the other side of the boat to help at the davits. A rocket went off from the wheelhouse, fizzing into the sky, raining down sparks. I stared at it, sucking in air, wondering what the hell I was going to do now.

And then, right in front of me, Ismay stepped quickly over the gunwale and sat down in the crowded lifeboat.

He ignored us, eyes straight ahead, looking surprised at his own daring. I stared at him, dumbstruck. I didn't want him to stay. Definitely not. But I didn't want any of us to stay, and the fact that he so casually just—just. . .

Murdoch was staring, too. He finally managed, "Take them down." He didn't even have to shout to be heard this time as I let the rope slip through my hands, little by little, another crewman helping me as the boat went down, Ismay dropping slowly out of sight. There were no crowds anymore. "Steady," came Murdoch's voice again, exhausted; I closed my eyes over the tears forming in them. "Both sides together. Keep it steady."

This is how it would happen, then. How I'd finally lose it. Somehow I'd kept it together all night, ignoring thoughts of what would happen to me and the others in just a few hours. But judging from the list of the deck, we weren't going to last much longer. There were no lights on the horizon, there had been no word of any ships on their way.

It was going to end here, and my one brave act the whole night had just alienated the only person left I loved.

When the end of the rope finally slipped through my fingers, I turned away. I went for the wheelhouse, lost in my rage, and slammed into the officer's quarters corridor, still brightly lit, quiet, at a horrifying tilt. Tearing off my gloves, I went up it towards my room, then slammed inside, door bouncing off the wall.

No furniture had moved yet, but my books had tumbled from the shelf to the other side of the room. I stared at it all, shaking hard, realizing now that I was trapped. Even if we got the last collapsible off the roof in time, it would be filled with passengers, and the rest of us would go straight to the water. And we'd freeze. I'd never be able to live with myself if I'd left Murdoch here—but the alternative was a painful death amid a screaming throng.

God, there was so much left I needed to do. I hadn't spoken to my parents in ages; we'd parted sorely. Would they ever even know I was sorry? What about starting a family someday, a real one, what about seeing women get the chance to actually vote? What about those thoughts of Murdoch's strong hands tracing over every inch of me, deep in some quiet hotel in New York, twisting ourselves into the sheets bright and early one morning?

I'd kept it together all evening. I'd been there for Murdoch, and in a strange way for Thomas, and had tried to be strong as all those women sobbed past me into the lifeboats.

Well, I was done with it. I was done keeping it together.

"You have thirty seconds to fall apart," I whispered, and felt myself snap.

The sobs came first, the tears falling steady and quick, and before long I heard myself scream, and then suddenly I'd grabbed my lamp by its base and hurled it across the room and where it shattered against the wall. I turned over the chair, I hurled a book still clinging to my desk, I threw my hat. I grabbed the pitcher from beside its basin and flung it hard; it shattered and water spilled down with it; I grabbed the basin and threw it with another scream. I fell back against the wardrobe, looking at the mess, gasping, trembling, bruised hand hurting like a sonofabitch, horrified and scared and angry.

I hid my face with my hands, and that's how Murdoch found me, tried to pull me into his arms, but I wouldn't let him. I didn't want to see him, didn't want him to see that I'd given up, that I was capable of this kind of frenzy, but he was stronger than I was. My arms pinned against his chest, he held on tight, not trying to shush me, just holding me against him while I wept bitterly, trying half-heartedly to get free, but then finally just gave up and pressed my face to his jacket, gulping in air as I tried to calm myself down.

"How can we stand it?" I whispered into his neck, taking shaky breaths. "How can anyone bear this?"

"Because we must," he murmured. "Because we have each other, and it's our duty to get these people safely home—as many as we can." He relaxed his iron grip, pulling back a bit to look at me, his heart breaking through his eyes. "Because I'm not going to let you have ditched that boat for nothing." He threaded his fingers deep into my hair.

"I'm sorry," I managed. "I'm so sorry I didn't listen to you, I just couldn't go. I couldn't be out there just _wondering._ . . ."

"It's all right, love. I'd rather have you with me," he said softly. "And let me tell you something else—we're going to make it out of here."

I bit my lower lip to keep it from trembling. "Right."

"No. We are, Ellen." Murdoch kissed me, softly. I didn't know until just then how much I'd needed it, his steadiness, the reassuring feel of his lips on my own. "We'll swim for a boat when the others are gone. We're going to get to New York." He kissed my cheek. "We're going to stay at the Waldorf, the two of us." My forehead this time. "We're going to go dancing at night." Back to my lips, then he looked in my eyes again. "I'm going to get you the most beautiful dress you've ever seen. All the books you could ever read."

I hung onto his shoulders, wanting desperately to believe him, wanting so badly just to know that everything would be fine.

"But first we have to fight for it," he murmured. "We've got to carry on and protect as many passengers as we can, and then fight like hell to follow them. It won't be easy. But we can do it together. All right?"

Sinking back into his arms again, I closed my eyes, trying to coax that flicker of hope into a flame. I thought of the two of us bashing around New York, holding each other close on some smoky dance floor, holding each other close at night, out of the eyes of the other officers. Thought of sending my parents a telegram to let them know I was alive. Thought of _Ethan Frome_ and a hundred other books. Breathed in Murdoch's delicious, masculine aftershave and soap smell, and wondered if maybe, just _maybe_, I'd still have children someday.

I stood up straighter, resolve burning in me again, and whispered, "Thank you."

He nodded, then kissed me briefly, but I grabbed his greatcoat as he pulled away. "Not yet," I whispered, lower lip trembling again. "Please, Will. . ."

His brows lowered slightly, his eyes darkening with want, and his lips parted. "Ellen," he said, voice catching, and he came back, his arms sliding around me. He bent his head, and his mouth coaxed mine open.

_Here _it was, here was that need I knew was there, that want that he was only barely holding back. My arms around his neck, my throbbing hand wound in his hair, I could only hang on as he kissed me hard, _deep._ I moaned, felt him groan in return; he moved and I found my back against the wardrobe, his hips pressing mine hard against the oak doors. He drew back and kissed my neck, biting gently, his hands slipping to my hips to pull them even closer as his mouth returned to my lips. In my mind I cursed our stupid greatcoats, wishing I could be close to him as we were earlier this afternoon, when we had each other's buttons in our hands, his warm fingertips just brushing the skin at my waist before we called it off. Now he broke away, our foreheads together, both of us gasping, my entire body buzzing with determination and want.

"Will," I whispered, looking up into his eyes. I was going to tell him. Return the sentiment he'd offered earlier. "Will, I. . ."

"Come on," he murmured, and kissed my cheek. "We've got to get back out there."

"Right." I wiped my eyes, gritted my teeth. My words could wait. "Let's get the hell out of here."

He smiled. "That's the Ellen I know." He took my good hand, and together we left my destroyed room without a glance back. It hadn't been more than a few minutes since I'd burst in.

Outside it was strange—the nearly-naked deck, now that the lifeboats were gone. The band still playing from far off. More and more people now jammed at this end of the boat around Collapsible B on the port side. The front of the ship already sunken to the point that the entire forward well deck was shimmering under green water.

"I've already got crewmen on the roof," Murdoch told me as we moved. "We'll get it down and then hook it up, and send it off."

"Right." I gulped, hurrying up the ladder I never thought I'd have to use, Murdoch on my heels. That water would be here soon enough. We'd have to work like hell to get the collapsibles down quickly. I thumped across the roof, knowing my quarters were underneath my feet. Crewmen were swarming Collapsible A, Murdoch already calling orders. I tried to ignore the rippling sea ahead of us, beginning to help a crewman draw back the cover on top of the boat.

I was just wondering exactly how we were going to get it down when I heard my name, and turned to find Mr. Wilde heading up the ladder. "Miss Wallace," he said again, nodding to me, and Murdoch, who came up beside me. "Lightoller needs a hand," Wilde told me. "He's trying to fill Collapsible B, and he's having problems with the crowd pressing in. He thinks if you're there, Ellen, you might help keep everyone calm, and encourage the women in. And Will, I can lend a hand."

Murdoch and I locked eyes. That meant I had to leave him. Yes, it was just across the way. But with the crowds. . . and the ship was going so fast. . . "Right," I said, straightening. "Right. Er. I'm going."

Murdoch's hand was on my shoulder, grip tight, eyes on mine. "Be careful," he said, a strangled hint of desperation in his voice.

I glanced at Wilde, who already had an eyebrow up. "Sodding hell," I said, leaning in to Murdoch, "I don't care any more." I kissed him, far too briefly, his hands agonizingly tight around my fingers, before we broke apart, his eyes lingering on mine. _Come back to me_, they were saying.

I nodded, barely glanced at Wilde's stunned expression, and strode past him.

Then it was down the ladder on the other side and right into the unruly, shouting crowds. "Damn," I muttered, trying to figure out how I was going to work my way up to Collapsible B, then realized I had no other option but to push people in front of me out of the way. So I did, elbowing past men (they seemed to be _all_ men) until, when reaching out, I felt Lightoller's hand grab mine and pull me up to the front.

"Miss Wallace," he said, nodding, voice raw from shouting. "Thank you—_step back, sir!_"

"Of course." I helped pull a woman from the crowd and into the boat, then got a good look at the wide-eyed, half panicked crowd in front of us. Some of the men noticed that I was there, looking all the more like a woman without my hat, and did seem to push a bit less violently. The boat was already half full, its passengers looking back towards us fearfully, some teary-eyed, some just stunned.

"Why hasn't he sent you off yet?" Lights asked as we helped a mother and two children board.

"He tried," I told him over the noise. "I sort of—er, refused the orders."

He grinned. "Ha! I'm not surprised. You're both mad for each other."

I remembered a conversation from ages ago, Murdoch telling me about how Lights approved. "I heard you figured it out."

"It wasn't so difficult, if you know Will." He looked back over the crowd, then bellowed, "_Are there any more women and children?_"

No one answered, and none of the men tried to push them forward.

"Very well," Lights said, and turned toward the crewmen. "Lower away!"

I stood by with him, checking to make sure it lowered evenly, helping crewmen at the ropes. All together I'd only been on this side for about five minutes, but it seemed so much longer. I was desperate to get back to the other side, and when the boat touched water ten feet later, I turned to Lightoller. "I need to get back over there," I told him, trying not to sound completely desperate. The crowd was breaking up.

Lights nodded, then grasped my shoulder, searching my eyes. "Then go. We should be all right, over here."

It occurred to me suddenly that he'd never willingly climb into a boat, either. "Mr. Lightoller. . ." I heard my voice crack.

"Ellen," he said gently, knowing exactly what I was thinking, "I'll be all right. Go on."

I stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. "You've been wonderful," I managed. "From the very start. Thank you."

Faintly pink, he smiled. "Good luck," he said simply, and turned toward the port ladder by the officer's quarters.

I balled my hands into fists, watching him go, praying he'd make it.

Then I turned and headed toward the starboard side.

_Shit, _I thought, realizing as I rounded the officer's quarters that the crowd at Collapsible B had relocated to the starboard side, now completely choking off Collapsible A. The half-empty roof was indicating they'd been able to take it down, and I could barely see the stretched ropes from the falls over the heads of all these men.

"Damn it," I snapped, realizing that the only way to get there was to just elbow my way through them. Maybe I could've climbed the ladder, but that would mean jumping down at the other side—and it was a ten-foot drop.

I eyed the wall of men struggling to get to the front, even as more rushed past me to join them. It would be nearly impossible, but I could do it.

I waded in, attempting to elbow past them, but they weren't ready to move. "Pardon me!" I yelled over the noise, getting jostled this way and that. I nearly fell sideways before the space disappeared and I fell against someone's overcoat, who pushed me back to my feet. "Officer coming through!" Technically not officer—but my uniform helped.

Shoving someone out of the way, I was about to move into that space when someone else shoved me back and I stumbled again. "Damn!" I pulled myself up again on someone's sleeve. By the windows next to me and the davits above, I could tell I was about halfway there.

Suddenly a man shoved me, hard, and I would've gone down if not for the man next to me who grabbed me. I looked back over to see the taller, more agile Caledon Hockley shoving his way past the other men to the front. "Watch it, asshole!" I snapped, but it was lost in the noise. I hoped Murdoch wouldn't let him on. There was no way—not with so many other men here.

God, Murdoch. That flickering hope charged through me as I thought of him. I needed to get to him. It was stupid to leave him, no matter how much Lights needed me. I had to see Will, needed to do this with him. There was no way I could do it on my own.

I got a few more steps forward and realized I was just a few men away, then thought I recognized Murdoch's voice in a hoarse shout, though didn't understand the words. "Come _on!_" I cried at the men around me.

A man above me and to my right, hanging off the closest davit, looked over and seemed to notice my uniform. "Hoi," he called, "this one's an officer! Let her through!"

"Thank _you_." I felt hands pulling me forward.

At that moment, a man catapulted himself past us to my left, leaping toward the rigging on the left side of Collapsible A. Through the men in front of me I caught a glimpse of Murdoch and froze at the sight of him brandishing his gun at the crowd, wild-eyed—

_BLAM_.

Murdoch fired off to the left and the man who'd bolted at the collapsible came crashing down. I was stunned, still frozen and wide-eyed, but suddenly the man hanging on the davit above us lost his grip and slammed into me from the right. I stumbled forward, cursing, bursting from the crowd with two men—

_BLAM_.

Pain punched into my lower left ribcage so hard that I fell back, stunned with it, looking up just in time to meet Murdoch's horrorstruck gaze, Webley still pointed right at me.

At me.

My breath was gone; I gasped for it and felt myself go down, one hand at my side, a throbbing point of unbearable, burning agony. I hit the deck, realizing dimly that the crowd had stopped shouting so loudly, stopped pressing so hard.

"Christ," I tried to say, but it came out as a whimper. I could feel the cold, damp deck under my bruised right hand, felt warmth cascade over the fingers of my left, felt myself wheeze for air, convulse in a shudder. I inhaled gun smoke, sharp and bitter, and nearly gagged, watching my bruised knuckles.

An arm around my shoulders, under my knees, and I knew from the whiff of soap and aftershave that it was Murdoch, shaking hard through his greatcoat. I closed my eyes, tucking my head against his neck, gasping, my left side on fire with pain.

_That's it, then_. All that work, all that determination, and it was over anyway. There would be no screaming throng, no razors of ice-cold water dragging the heat from my exhausted limbs as we tried to swim for it. There was just a bullet in my side that my entire body was convulsing around, lungs in blinding pain every time I tried to breathe.

_Better this way, _I realized, my cold nose against Murdoch's warm neck, the noise from the crowd fading. The panic in my heart, fading.

_I always hated swimming._


	19. Eighteen: Murdoch and the others

Author's Note: Everyone, thank you so much for your lovely words. Ah, the tears. I know. It's rough to write, too. As far as this chapter goes, I was going to put some big note in here, about *grumblegrumble* it's just fan fiction, don't get your knickers in a festival; it's movie-based, so *sassafrassintarnation* relax already, but I decided not to. You're all smarter than that. As a final note, the epilogue will be up this week at the usual update time. It's not over till it's over. And it's not over yet. Until then, dear readers. Cue up your favorite soul-crushingly sad music.

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Eighteen: Murdoch and the others

April 15, 1912

02:07

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There'd been a moment, a few hours back, one in which Murdoch found himself wondering at the thrumming of his heart. At that point, Ellen was deep in his arms, her full lips giving his kisses back to him, his hands in her soft unpinned hair, her brown eyes looking up at him with more need than he knew what to do with. His heart had pounded, and he'd reveled in every second, wanting more, and more.

Now his heart was hammering so hard he could barely breathe. And he couldn't stop shaking, not as he pulled her away from the crowds, not as Wilde came with him and helped him set her down at the other end of the lifeboat. She was whimpering—uncontrollably, he assumed—in a pitiful, small pitch, her cold nose pressed into his neck.

"No," he was saying without meaning to. The horror was making him sick to his stomach, his pounding heart worsening the effect. Wilde, in shocked silence, held Ellen's shoulders up while Murdoch tore off his gloves, started unbuttoning her heavy greatcoat. "No, no, no—"

Inside her coat, he opened the buttons on her officer's jacket, tasting bitterness like bile in his mouth. Just hours ago he was fumbling with those same buttons, and she with him, the backs of his knuckles just grazing the warm skin beneath her shirt before they both came to their senses and pulled away from each other.

He thought that next time they got around to it, they'd have time. She was watching him, not the progress on her buttons, and he knew she was thinking it, too.

She was wheezing shallowly, her shirt already red, and he nearly tore out the bottom three buttons of it. He caught a flash of pale, smooth skin before seeing that the rest of it was wet with blood, a purplish dime-sized puncture in the skin just below her ribcage dribbling it fast and thick.

There was no way she'd make it.

"Lung," Wilde managed from behind and above her, still holding her shoulders up, fear in his eyes. "She's got minutes."

Murdoch nodded, suppressing a panic that was about to unhinge him. He moved to take Wilde's place, one arm around her shoulders, holding her up, his other hand tangling with her damp fingers—sea spray and blood. Wilde, with no other choice, went to keep helping the crowd.

Murdoch held her close. "Ellen?" Her eyes were slightly unfocused, but he could see them working to meet his. "Love?"

"Murdoch," she managed hoarsely, reaching up with her free hand to wrap it around the back of his neck.

His eyes prickled with bitter tears as it occurred to him that the faster she spoke, the more energy she'd lose. She was already barely breathing. She'd start choking on her own blood before long. "Don't speak," he tried, releasing her hand to smooth strands of hair off her face. "It'll—it'll make the pain worse."

She tried to smile, but it was tremulous, none too confident. "Like I could feel pain when I'm with you."

He remembered the first collapsible, and more anger flared within him. He should have picked her up and thrown her in. His own selfishness, his own fear made him accept that she was staying. And now they were both paying for it. "I should have made you go," he managed. "God, Ellen, I should have forced you to go!"

She swallowed, eyes losing focus with the effort, before coming back to him. "Something would have happened to me anyway." It was barely above a whisper. She tried to take a deep breath and winced, but looked up at him again. "You can't beat fate. Luckily it led me back to you."

His breath caught on a dry sob. "Love," he whispered, hating nothing so much as he hated himself, "I'm so sorry."

She pulled him closer, eyes intent on his. "I know, Will." He watched tears gather in them, and she tried to smile again. "It's all right."

"No." he shook his head. "It isn't. We. . ." Could have tried for it together. Could have had a life together. Could have at least finished their duty together.

Ellen sniffled then cried out from the way her body jerked; her grip tightened around his neck, and she trembled nearly as badly as he did. He couldn't stand it, seeing her like this, knowing he'd done it to her.

When she met his eyes again, hers were still forgiving. "S'all _right_, Will," she whispered.

She pulled him down to her lips and gently bit his lower one; he pulled her closer and kissed her back. They became pecks as he tried to apologize again, but she wouldn't have it, pulling him back again, claiming him, their fingers still tangled together. It was a last kiss. It was good.

She pulled back, looking at him, her smile almost content. Relieved. Suddenly she winced, coughed and then whimpered, and he realized she'd coughed blood. She swallowed it back, shaking, and leaned against him, the ragged sound of her labored breathing between them as he held her close, his eyes wide.

She whispered his name, almost inaudible. He bent his head. "Yes?"

Her voice was so small. He could barely hear it. "I think I'm in love with you, too," she whispered.

"Ellen," his voice broke. "Ellen, I. . ."

Her trembling had stopped.

Murdoch held her away from him. Her eyes were closed, and her body had gone limp. He could see the red of blood on her parted lips.

It all slammed back on him—the shouting crowd, fighting to break past the crewmen; Wilde above him, helping women come through, calling for everyone to stay back. The green water roaring up the stairs, the fact that Collapsible C was minutes from being swamped by the water it had to be lowered into.

Murdoch set his jaw. He kissed Ellen's sweat-damp forehead, laid her down gently, and got to his feet. He felt numb. Everything did, except for the very edges of his resolve, which were simmering with a blinding rage.

He hadn't meant to fire. He'd panicked. Who wouldn't have? In the heat of it, when that other group of men sprang forward, he'd shot without thinking, without even looking.

And she'd been there. The look in her eyes, the surprise, the confusion, her hand suddenly bright red as she pressed it to her side as she fell—he could never forget.

Looking down at the deck, the noise of the crowd roaring in his ears, he watched blood slide down the wooden slats. Her blood. He stepped back, horrified, and his heel came down on something solid and irregular.

It was the Webley he'd dropped moments ago.

Staring at it, the breath on his lips fogging in the cold air, he made up his mind. This hell, this nightmare of panic and screaming and death and hopelessness and Ellen Wallace's blood on his hands and her last kiss still on his lips and every last ruddy bit of it, his fault. . .

He closed his eyes.

There was only one thing he had the strength left to do.

_._

_._

Icy water slammed into Lightoller, nearly displacing his grip on the rudder of the overturned Collapsible B as the wave propelled the boat away from the ship. Gasping for air, fingers hardly working for the pain of cold, he managed to haul himself aboard.

Watching the second funnel collapse, numbly helping drag others onto the overturned collapsible, he couldn't believe he was still alive. Didn't want to think about it too hard, because he didn't know how long he would be. _Survival isn't a question of fighting_, he thought as the group of them slowly began to paddle away from the ship. _Surviving is just _doing_. Keeping yourself going, distracted, so there's no time to reflect on any other alternative_.

As they gained distance, the ship coming apart behind them, he took stock of the boat. There were some twenty-odd men huddled uncomfortably on the keel, nothing to grip, the sea making everything slippery. Phillips and Bride, the two wireless operators, were across from him. Bride was waiting for orders, unable to reach the sea from his seat. Phillips was folded in on himself, shuddering so violently that Lightoller knew the boy couldn't last much longer.

When the ship went under minutes later, Lights and the men on the collapsible could do nothing but watch silently. His whole body was still, eyes wide, too horrified to even shiver. It happened so _fast_, the whole thing sliding into the waves at once, a cacophony of internal explosions dragging it down, and just like that, there were a thousand people in the water. The sense of being alone, helpless, in the middle of the ocean, was overwhelming, made his voice bubble to the back of his throat.

"We have to get away," he said, but it was hoarse, and no one could hear it. He coughed, wished for a drink. Water. Or whiskey. Definitely whiskey. "Let's move," he said, "Come on, lads, we've got to pull for it. They'll drag us down with them." They all reached into the water again, and tried to put distance between themselves and the screaming.

In an hour the ocean was silent and Phillips was dead, and Bride was too exhausted and freezing to even mourn his friend properly. Waves had begun picking up. The glass-calm sea, once reflecting the stars, had come alive again. A wintery breeze chilled them and stiffened their wet clothes.

Lightoller had tucked himself into a corner of his mind, away from the icy air, his own shivering. He only emerged to call the occasional order, and once to ask Bride if any ships were on the way. One of them, the _Carpathia_, might reach them as soon as dawn, but Lights nearly didn't care.

The guilt of survival was heavy on his shoulders, and he'd had enough of responsibility to last him a lifetime. This waiting here, in the freezing cold, alone on the North Atlantic—it was too much. The cold that drove into him with every breath, the water around every edge of his peripherals, even the sound of waves gently lapping the boat (a noise which he usually deeply enjoyed) was driving him mad. He didn't want to wait. He wanted to be dead or he wanted to be on a rescue boat. Not here in the interim, waiting on a fleeting hope, wondering if he'd ever see sunlight again.

But then the boat bucked again, nearly tossing him and a few others from it. He grabbed the rudder, pulled himself to his knees, bringing himself back. The men were looking to him for orders.

"Up," he heard himself call. "Everyone up. Get ready for the next wave."

He taught them how to displace their weight, so that when the next wave came rolling by, they were ready for it. They kept the boat steady, shifting, bracing themselves, and when the wave is past, the boat settles and no one even stumbled.

They're pleased with themselves. Though Lightoller couldn't quite summon the strength to smile, he felt a shadow of fondness somewhere deep inside of him. It was like kindling, and each time a wave came at them, each time the men on the boat moved accordingly and saved themselves, it grew stronger. He could feel himself beginning to light up again, from the inside. The will to survive, slowly coming back.

In another hour Lights could see hints of sun on the horizon. He and Bride were standing shoulder-to-shoulder with members of Boat 12, over 70 of them, sea water splashing over the gunwale because it was riding so low on the waves. They were all staring into the distance, prayig that none of them were hallucinating.

The tiny speck of a ship miles in the distance fired a rocket into the sky, and it exploded overhead, white against the dusty blue of dawn. _Saved_, he thought, water in his shoes, in his clothes, as everyone cheered. _We're ruddy well saved_.

An hour after that, his limbs felt like rubber as he climbed the rope ladder up the side of the _Carpathia_. He couldn't believe he even had the strength for it. He's the last one out of the boat, which is half sunk with water. The last passenger from the _Titanic _to come aboard.

At the top of the ladder, a large, callused hand took his to pull him the rest of the way up. A grim-faced mustachioed man in a captain's uniform let go, and nodded at Lightoller. "Welcome aboard the _Carpathia_," the man said. "I'm Captain Rostron."

"I'm Second Officer Lightoller," Lights said. He was gripping a nearby railing so hard his knuckles were white, and he was nearly swaying with exhaustion. "The _Titanic _has struck a berg and gone under." The sunlight was warm on his face, and he blinked up into it, the relief of his survival hitting him hard. "And if you don't mind, I'd very much like to see the other officers."

.

.

Lowe was still getting accustomed to the idea that he wasn't, and wouldn't be, dead.

He'd accepted it, huddled in the dark and cold, nearly welcomed it as he'd shivered convulsively, surrounded by a field of floating dead. He'd rescued the few he could, but then came the wait. It was all they could do, aside from tie their boat to two others and try to keep people calm.

He'd made the knowledge of death part of himself, waited for it. He'd given up, because dying of hypothermia seemed so much easier than living out his life with these memories always hovering near the surface of his mind.

Now he was silent, hands thawing around a hot mug of strong tea, heavy blanket around his shoulders.

The others were silent too, still getting used to it, still in shock, in the bright lights of _Carpathia's _officer's mess. Lightoller's eyes were closed, head leaned back against the wall behind their bench. Pitman stared unseeingly at the countertop. Boxhall had his head in his hands. _It's almost worse,_ Lowe thought. _Wondering why it isn't us._

He sipped his tea, wishing for Ellen's coffee instead. He's been trying not to think of what her last moments could possibly have been like, what Will's and Henry's had entailed, even the captain's. And how James had died. How he could possibly have died. He was twenty-four. Even Ellen—she was Lowe's age.

It was so bloody unfair that he didn't think he could stand thinking about it much more.

So he decided to think of more pleasant things. The easy friendship he'd struck up with Ellen, and even James. Lowe hadn't known any of the officers when he'd come aboard a week ago. He didn't expect to find himself in the maritime equivalent of a barfight, much less with a woman who could handle it as well as he could. He didn't expect that he and Moody would get along so well; Moody had even loaned him a few books the other night, the younger man's favorites that Lowe had never read.

He remembered walking in on the group of them barely twelve hours ago in the officer's mess, when he'd been looking for a cup of coffee. They playing cards, the air thick with laughter and smoke, and a few of them had tried to get him to ditch his rounds. In that moment, he thought that he and Ellen finally knew they fit in.

And then disaster. And somehow he'd clawed his way to survival. He wondered briefly what, exactly, had happened between Murdoch and Ellen, that had caused Murdoch's surprising revelation right before Lowe had to leave them. Perhaps he'd ask Lightoller, once everything had calmed down. Lights and the first officer were close, Lowe knew. And it might help to talk about it.

Lowe took a deep breath, steadying himself. Soon they'd have to get up. They'd have to speak more in detail with Captain Rostron; they'd have to speak about everything. They'd have a duty to the passengers to help document the survivors, to help round up telegram messages.

But for now, the four of them were quiet. Lowe knew somewhere deep down that as much as they'd never forget the hell of that night, this is something else they'd remember. The camaraderie in surviving. The brotherhood of the living.

The door opened, and Captain Rostron stuck his head in. "Sorry, gentlemen," he said, looking at each of them. "We'll need you in a few minutes. Wheelhouse."

"Right," Lightoller said, not opening his eyes. "We'll be there." Rostron nodded, and closed the door.

Boxhall sighed, taking his head out of his hands. "Good," he grunted. "Could use something to bloody do."

"Agree," Pitman said, and stood. He looked around at them all. "Come on, lads," he said gently. "Let's get through this, eh?"

Lowe nodded and stood. It felt good to stand on a steady deck. "Let's get through this," he agreed, and drained his tea.


	20. Epilogue: Lightoller

Author's Note: Can you believe it? We've reached the end. My dear readers, thank you, from the bottom of my heart, from the heart of my soul, thank you for sticking with this tale for as long as you have. You're the ones who kept me writing. You're the ones who made me pick up my pen (er, keyboard?) after nearly six years of not going anywhere near these characters. Thank you also to those of you I haven't heard from—my traffic meter tells me there are quite a few of you, so thanks for taking the time, and I hope you enjoyed the ride. And I do hope the epilogue gives all of you a decent sense of, well, closure. It's nowhere near the same vein as my previous _Titanic_-related epilogue, but feel free to envision eternal boning, navy coats on the floor, and sweet sarcasm. They deserve it so much. Writing them again was so much fun, and Ellen's a character I'm sad to part with.

As a final disclaimer: Ellen is mine, the story is mine, and plagiarism kills kittens, or something. Some of the dialogue and cinematic elements belong to that rascal James Cameron, and the _Titanic _and anyone involved now belong to the ages.

Once again, thank you. I'm done writing in the _Titanic _realm, though it will always have a place in my heart. For now, I offer you a final enjoy and review. It's been wonderful, lovelies. Now go into the world, and write, and be brilliant.

.

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Epilogue: Lightoller  
April 21, 1912  
6:15 PM

.

.

Charles Lightoller has always hated cigarettes, but nonetheless he was halfway through one, staring blankly out at the dusky, darkening sky. "Sodding hell," he said absently, in a cloud of smoke.

Bert Pitman managed a smile, staring down into the busy street outside the Waldorf. It wasn't yet dark enough for the gas lamps to come on. "Quite," Pitman agreed, propped against a pillar. He was smoking, too— the cigarettes were his. "How long have we been here today?"

"Let's see." Lightoller balanced his cigarette in his lips, reaching for his pocket watch. As he clicked the gold lid open, he briefly remembered doing the same thing two weeks ago. He'd been waiting impatiently for Ellen Wallace in a conference room that was now five miles below the surface of the North Atlantic. "It's a quarter past six," he said. "Nearly nine hours now."

Pitman grunted, shifting. "I've had about enough Senator Smith," he said. "Bloody American politicians."

Lightoller blew a stream of smoke into the night. It was comforting, in a way. "As if ours are much better."

"Ah, good evening, gentlemen."

Both men straightened as a portly, graying man stepped onto the terrace. It was Lord William James Pirrie, his face was drawn with loss—loss of his nephew the shipbuilder, his niece the junior officer, the ship and the souls that went with it.

Two weeks ago, Lightoller would have immediately smushed out his cigarette and stood at attention. Now he couldn't quite summon the heart. "Sir," he and Pitman said.

"At ease," Pirrie said quietly. "Mr. Lightoller, I was wondering if I might have a word."

Pitman nodded and excused himself. Lights studied Lord Pirrie, thinking that usually the head of Harland and Wolff shipbuilders was jovial, warm, and one of the sharpest, most astute men he'd ever met. Now Pirrie moved slowly, as though every step pained him. He looked wan—clearly he hadn't been sleeping. Lights knew Pirrie had stepped off the boat from England that morning, and headed straight for the hearing, which he'd been sitting in on ever since.

"Mr. Lightoller," Pirrie started, "I should thank you. You're a bloody hero."

Lights felt uncomfortable. Others had tried to tell him the same, but he'd only done his duty. There was no heroics in that. No heroism in surviving, when he wasn't sure what got his half of his friends first—the drowning, or the cold. "What can I do for you?" he asked, suddenly glad to have something to do with his hands. He flicked ash off the end of his cigarette.

"I wanted to ask about my niece, Ms. Wallace," Pirrie said.

Lights resisted a frustrated groan. Since everyone had stepped off the _Carpathia _and onto Pier 54, he'd been bombarded with questions from countless people as to whether or not he, Lights, had witnessed their relatives' final moments. It was exhausting, harrowing, and slightly nauseating. Lights had spent his first night back on land retching over a basin in his complimentary hotel room, overcome with it all, realizing that he could never, ever forget the death that surrounded him that night.

Now Pirrie, of all people, wanted to know about his niece? Lights had no idea what happened to her. He remembered her hesitation at leaving him, her quick kiss on his cheek, but then he'd turned away, lest he thought too hard about how she shouldn't have refused a lifeboat. He remembered hoping dearly that he'd get the chance to work with her when it was all over, but at that point he had to get the ruddy collapsible down.

"That's not what I meant," Pirrie said, seeing the look in Lightoller's eyes. "I simply. . ." He sighed. "There's no delicate way to go about it. We wanted Ellen to be the measure of whether we should open similar jobs across the industry. I simply wanted to know whether you thought she performed her duties well and admirably."

Lightoller inhaled on the cigarette. The far end of it glowed.

"I understand you didn't have much to go on." Pirrie looked away, down at the street beneath them. The lamps had finally come on. "She wasn't even your charge yet. But anything you could tell me would be helpful."

Lights had to think about it.

He wasn't sure if he could honestly say. He'd seen her doing her duties well enough, and promptly, so there was that. But Ellen was an anomaly. He hadn't expected to like her, much less find out that she wasn't a stupid, skirt-swirling twit interested only in marrying off to a sailor. She was genuine; she was as insecure about her new job as the rest of them. She cursed more frequently than he did, which was impressive. And somehow she'd captured the heart of a man who hadn't truly given his away in years. How could she be the standard to which the White Star Line held itself?

"I don't know, sir," he said at last. He breathed smoke from his nose. "She performed her duties admirably, as far as I saw."

Pirrie studied him. "Indeed?"

"Quite. But she. . ." He sighed, shifted, sucked on the cigarette again. This was going to become a habit if he wasn't careful. "She was _different_, sir. From other women. I don't know if you'll find another like her. She fit in with us because she—well, she _was _one of us, for all that she was a woman. It took time, yes. Even I wasn't convinced at first. We expected a dimwit who didn't know the first thing about the business, but she was. . ." He felt helpless. He never prattled. "Well, she was brilliant, I thought."

Pirrie was smiling sadly. "It will be hard to replace her."

Lightoller wasn't sure he wanted anyone to replace her. "I would think," he said. He ground out the cigarette butt on the railing.

"She was terrified, you know," Pirrie said, shaking his head. "She wanted the job, because she wanted to help women have a more prominent role in maritime industries. But she expected it to be hell. From what I can tell, you helped make it less so."

Lights, and Will. He remembered the way he'd caught Will looking at her over the tops of his cards. The blush that flamed in her cheeks when he'd mentioned Will being mad for her, as she and Lights loaded Collapsible B. "I think she was happy," he said finally. "If there are more women like her, by all means—bring them aboard."

Pirrie smiled, clapped him on the shoulder. "Thank you, Mr. Lightoller," he said. "And thank you for all you did for the passengers. I'd best be getting back."

Pirrie moved away and Lights turned back to the street, hands in his pockets, eyes closed. In a minute he, too, would have to go back inside, no doubt for another round of questions that he was already sick and tired of answering. But for now, out here on the dusky terrace, he had a moment. He could think of his friends laughing together over hands of poker and cups of coffee, finally all getting along. He could think of seeing his wife in just a few weeks, her amber curls and bright gray eyes sharp in his mind; his fingers in his pocket were curled around a strip of paper with her latest telegram. He could remember the serene joy he'd felt in walking along the _Titanic_'s_ new _decks at night during his rounds, salted sea wind breezing over him.

Lights breathed deeply, opened his eyes, the glow of the street lamps below. Here, on the terrace, above the lamps, there was at last a bit of peace.


End file.
